Contact
by reading
Summary: Strangers and Angels universe. They still hear from the Winchesters from time to time.
1. Prologue

_Contact - Prologue_

_Hey, everyone. It's been a long time since the Sweeds interacted with Dean and Sam in a way that was connected to what's actually going on with the show in any way. That's going to change – somewhat – here._

_If you haven't read any of the Stranger and Angels stories before, you'll probably want to do that before you start this story. It's going to assume that you know the OCs and understand the history they have with the Winchesters. _

xxxx

Jo Sweed eyed the mail that her husband had dropped on the coffee table. She tilted her head, sizing up the stack. Bills, a couple of cards, one of those cushioned packing envelopes, and some fliers. She worked the package out from the bottom of the pile and snagged the cards in their pink envelopes. Mother's Day had been last week and while she'd gotten a couple of phone calls on the appropriate day, other expressions of love and appreciation had not arrived in time. She assumed these were the promised notes of adulation.

Jo smiled at the familiar hands that had scrawled her name and address across the fronts of the envelopes – one was postmarked College Station, the other Houston. She started to open the card from Michael and glanced curiously at the package, wondering which of the boys had gone the extra mile. The handwriting wasn't as familiar as her own children's, but there was something about it that niggled at the back of her brain. There was no return address, but the postmark said Windom, Minnesota. _Huh._

Michael's card was typically funny, his dry sense of humor clearly on display. The handwritten note on the inside, though, made her throat ache a little.

Jake's card was an overblown mess – pink and white and gold with actual glitter that sifted into her lap as she pulled it out of its enormous envelope. The sentiment on the front and inside was written in flowing script and was cringe-worthy in its corniness. "What this said" was all Jake had added. She read it again, and this time it added to the tightness in her throat.

"The boys finally get those things in the mail?" Luke dropped down next to her, picking up the remote and pointing it at the television. "We ready to queue this up?"

"Wait for Tommy. I told him he needed to be all the way ready for bed, if he was going to watch with us." She picked up the package.

"You know how mad Jake is that you're letting Tommy watch _Lost_?"

"Me?" Jo gave her husband a jaundiced look as she worked open one end of the padded envelope. "You're the one who caved." She reached into the package and pulled out two books.

"What are those?"

"I don't know."

The books were stacked so that the covers were facing each other. She turned them to see the fronts, the cover art making her eyebrows go up before she showed them to Luke.

"Nice!" he said, reaching for one. "_Home_," he read from the book he held. "And _Supernatural_," he got from the one Jo had. He took it when she held it out to him.

"What in the world?" Jo asked. She upended the envelope and shook it, looking for information. There was nothing. "Is there a note in one of the books?"

Luke shook the books by their spines. Nothing fell out.

"Let me…." Jo took one of the volumes – _Supernatural_ – back from her husband. She studied the cover in confusion. There were two young men in the picture – one bare-chested with flowing hair, the other in a tight t-shirt with a bag of something over his shoulder.

"Marge is always reading this kind of trash," Luke said as he glanced at Jo. "Would she have mailed…?" He stopped, transfixed by the blurb on the back of the volume Jo held. "Uh, babe."

"What?" She turned her book over, skimming the words, shock setting in, and then reading aloud. "'Along a lonely California highway, a mysterious Woman in White lures men to their deaths…a terrifying phenomenon that may be'," she faltered, "'Sam and Dean's first clue to their father's whereabouts'."

xxxx

Jo shut off the computer and backed away from it slowly. She thought maybe she needed to go wash her hands. Or her mind.

She had read through the two books she'd been sent in just a couple of days, then handed them off to Luke. She'd recognized the Woman in White story from the first book, _Supernatural_, as one Sam had told them on the Winchesters' first stay. They'd been sitting out on a cool Sunday evening while Dean had cleaned out the car, the Winchesters telling stories, catching up with each other in some ways (she knew now) and entertaining her and the boys. She'd forgotten about it completely, dismissing the tale as a ghost story at the time, and never thinking about it again even after she and the family had been exposed to what was out there.

_Home _had broken her heart all over again. She knew the story of their mother's death already, but reading about it again, Mary Winchester protecting her boys from the poltergeist that had taken up residence in their old home, and Dean, shattered, calling John about the case that had taken them back to Lawrence. It had left her aching. And needing to know more.

The books were by someone named Carver Edlund. She'd gotten online to see what she could find and… uh, wow. She'd stumbled across websites and forums and fan fiction, which, again, wow. She wasn't even sure what to do with a lot of it.

Eventually, though, she'd found what she was looking for and managed to order all the books that were currently available and pre-ordered the one to be published soon.

"Sugar, are you OK?" Luke had come in from outside and was looking at her in concern. "You look… unsettled."

Jo laughed unsteadily. Luke didn't need to know what was out there on the internet about the boys. "I'm fine. Just ready for dinner." She smiled at him gamely.

He gave her a hard stare, but when she didn't succumb to his attempt to intimidate her into telling the truth, he grunted and put a platter of steaks on the table. He turned toward the door into the family room and bellowed, "Dinner's ready!"

Jo heard the sound of the television switching off. And moved toward the fridge to put the rest of supper on the table.

xxxx

Slowly, Jo turned the pages back to the top one on the sheaf of papers lying in her lap. Tears on her cheeks, she traced her fingers over the words at the top—_Swan Song_—and placed it to the side. She ran her palms over her face to smooth away the wetness and headed downstairs to start the coffee.

xxxx

The envelope was postmarked Cicero, Indiana and stiff, like there was something in it to keep the contents from getting bent.

Curious, Jo slit open the envelope and pulled out two thin pieces of cardboard. In between were two snapshots. In the first, Dean and a boy sat in the cab of a truck. The boy was behind the wheel, grin on his face, hand on the steering wheel; Dean sat at his side, one arm slung over the back of the seat. In the second photo Dean stood slightly behind a pretty, dark-haired girl. His face was tucked close to hers, and they were casually dressed, both smiling happily. Jo imagined that the boy in the other picture was behind the camera.

On the back, the photo with the boy said simply, "Ben." On the other Dean had written "Lisa" and "I'm OK."

xxxx

The log in the voicemail said "Unknown," and Jo grimaced. She highlighted the entry, and her thumb automatically moved toward "delete." But she hesitated.

She'd done this before—listened to a message from an anonymous caller, had even answered calls from unfamiliar numbers more often than she cared to admit. Each time she'd been disappointed. But she couldn't seem to stop herself, wondering and hoping….

She hit the "play" arrow.

"Uh. Hey, Jo."

Her breath caught in her throat.

"It's Sam." His voice was hesitant, slightly rough. "It's been a long time, I know. I… I'm sorry about that." He paused, and Jo could see him in her mind's eye, head bent, one hand over his eyes. She could barely breathe around the pounding of her heart. _He's alive?_ "It's been… We've…." He gave a shaky laugh – it was half amused, half broken. He sighed. "Anyway." Jo guessed he'd decided not to explain.

"I don't… I don't know what you know." He stopped again. "But I'm OK. I'm…. I'm with Dean. He's OK, too."

There was silence again—drawn out this time to the point that Jo thought maybe he'd hung up.

"I'm sorry I missed you," he finally said softly. "I just wanted…." He trailed off, but he started again. "I don't… I don't guess you heard from me in the last year or so?" Jo's eyebrows went up. "Things have been… I don't… I don't remember everything, I guess, and I wanted to make sure…." Another pause. "I'll call you back, OK?"

Jo had almost disconnected when Sam started again, speaking quickly like he'd forgotten something. "Oh. And I hope… I hope everything's OK with you guys. I hope…" There was one last stretch of quiet before, "I'll call you back," he said again.

He never did.

xxxx

"Luke!" Matt's shout had Luke turning around so fast he got a crick in his neck.

"Crap," he winced, hand coming up to press at the pain. "What?" he called back with more bite than the summons deserved. He'd been headed out for a sandwich, but he hadn't gotten very far down the sidewalk.

"You're gonna want to see this," was the answer. "Now."

Luke gave a heavy sigh and headed back to the office.

His deputy motioned him toward the corner of the large open room where they kept the television and still managed to gesture vaguely at their desks. "The crime alert came in over email a few minutes ago, but… I saw this on the news and…."

Luke stopped. And stared.

Matt had paused the newscast on a grainy video feed. Dean and Sam were both looking at the camera, guns in hand, smirks on their faces.

"Wha-?"

"Watch." Matt hit play, and the reporter's voice started up.

"… two men, who up until today were presumed dead, locked the doors and opened fire, leaving no survivors. Sam and Dean Winchester are now the subjects of a manhunt throughout the state of California."

"Supposedly they robbed a bank and gunned down all the customers and staff in the vault." Matt had muted the talking head and was watching Luke closely. "They're number two on the most wanted list."

"I don't…," Luke faltered to a stop, brain stuck on the images replaying on the television, the news crawl along the bottom of the screen continuing to scroll through the details. "I mean, it can't…." He looked helplessly at his deputy. "It isn't them."

"I know," Matt said simply. "Can you get in touch with them?"

Luke shook his head. Matt knew that the Winchesters hadn't been to visit in a while. "We hear from them occasionally, but never with anything we can use to contact them in return." He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Jackasses," he muttered.

"Damn."

"Yeah."

When Luke's phone rang, he knew who it was without looking at the caller i.d. "Honey…"

"Luke, are you seeing this?" Jo's voice was distraught, and her tone was edging into hysteria. "What in the world is going on?"

"I have no idea." He paused. "I don't guess there's any chance you can think of _some_ way we can get hold of them? Is Bobby completely out as an option?"

"He hasn't returned my calls since he told me Dean had stopped hunting after Sam… fell. The last time I even tried, his number no longer worked," she sighed heavily.

Luke's own huff of breath echoed his wife's. "I'll see what I can find out," he said.

"Yeah. OK." She sounded so discouraged. "Call me."

Luke nodded, distracted. He opened his mouth to respond to his wife when his phone chimed to let him know the call had been disconnected. He went to drop the phone back in his pocket when it dinged twice in rapid succession.

Two texts.

From Michael: Have you seen the news? That can't really be D&S. Have you heard from them? What is going on?

From Jake: R U watching this whts ging on callme

Luke shook his. Typical. Of both of them. "Michael and Jakey," he told Matt. "I should call them." His eyes went back to the TV. "Any idea how to find out more?"

"What about the BAU?" Matt offered hesitantly.

Luke grimaced thoughtfully. He hated to call Agent Hotchner when the man had done so much to protect Dean and Sam already. Luke wondered if any of that was coming back on the agent.

"Let's not," he finally said. "At least not yet."

xxxx

Luke never called Agent Hotchner. The news coverage was obsessive and when Luke heard the Winchesters had been spotted at a gas station a thousand miles from a second bank robbery (this one in Wisconsin) with no time to have actually made the trip, he breathed a sigh of relief. Luke had never thought that Sam and Dean were guilty of the crimes they were accused of, but an explanation – even in the "maybe they have evil-twins" genre – eased his anxiety a couple of degrees for some reason.

Even so, the news didn't get any better. The massacre in St. Louis was horrific and the next word they got was that the Winchesters had been captured in Ankeny, Iowa.

Luke had decided to head north and had just finished packing, prepared with a story of crimes committed in his own jurisdiction and a need to see the culprits, when Jo called out from downstairs.

Jo simply pointed at the television as he entered the family room.

"To repeat, Dean and Sam Winchester were killed in a shootout at the police station in Ankeny, Iowa. Both local law enforcement and the federal officers assigned to the manhunt have confirmed the deaths of these two dangerous fugitives."

"It probably wasn't actually them," Luke said roughly.

"I know," Jo said.

xxxx

From an unknown number to every phone in the family.

"Don't eat at Biggerson's. Seriously. Don't."

xxxx

"Stay away from that high-fructose corn syrup crap, too."

xxxx

And then… silence.

xxxx

_To be continued_

xxxx


	2. Chapter 1

_Contact__ – ch. 1_

_Hi, everyone. It was amazingly encouraging to get such an enthusiastic response to this story – thank you so much! It's been a crazy couple of weeks at work, so I haven't had a chance to respond the way I'd like to, but please know I'm so appreciative. _

xxxx

"Dr. McCrae?"

A hand shook him roughly, and Michael opened his eyes groggily. "Yeah?" He cleared his throat, squinting at the face on the other end of the arm attached to the offending hand. He sat up slowly. If he was being woken up, it was bound to be something that would require his getting out of bed.

"They're calling all hands on deck; building collapse, multiple traumas."

"Yeah," Michael said again. "OK." He looked at the clock. 3:24. A.M. He'd gotten less than an hour. Halloween was a busy night in any ER. "Coffee?" He thought he actually could smell it, he needed it so bad.

"Don't burn yourself," was the response as a hot cup was placed in his hands. "And don't drop it," was the amused follow-up admonition when he startled a bit in surprise.

Michael nodded gratefully, drawing the paper cup closer to his chest with both hands to steady his grip, then raising it to his lips for a careful sip. _Ah._ "Thanks." He peered at the woman again, brain beginning to clear. "Martha."

Martha laughed. "You're welcome, hon." She patted his shoulder. "Now get going."

"Right." Michael got to his feet and headed for the door. He no longer took his shoes off when he got a chance to sleep while on shift, and with the hand not clutching his coffee, Michael straightened his white coat and his ID badge as he went, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to smooth down his hair.

Everyone in the ER was in motion as Michael arrived and though it may have looked chaotic, Michael knew it wasn't, and he entered without hesitation into the dance of preparation for a large-scale emergency. He'd finished off his coffee in the elevator in one long, burning gulp – a skill he'd perfected since arriving for his residency in emergency medicine – and tossed the cup in a trash can so he could take the handful of sterile gloves being thrust at him.

There were eleven victims, all in their late teens or early 20s—broken bones, lacerations, internal injuries. They'd been in the basement of an abandoned house about 15 minutes east of town when the floor above had collapsed on top of them. One of the kids had managed to call for help before passing out.

"What the hell were they doing in there anyway?" asked the attending doctor as she checked the responsiveness of the pupils of an unconscious girl.

"I heard they were out at the old Davis place," said one of the techs, clipping x-rays into the light boards for Michael to read. She glanced at another of the techs, who rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He'd just wheeled in a fifth victim, handing off the paperwork to another resident who was in the process of stripping off bloody gloves and dropping them into a medical waste container.

The attending caught Michael's eyes, confused and annoyed. He shrugged. "And?" Michael prodded, eying the films, looking for more breaks in his patient's femur beyond the messy compound fracture he was already well aware of. This kid had a long recovery ahead of him.

"It's supposed to haunted," said the second tech, Dwayne. Both he and the first tech were from the area and were often good sources of information for people new to the area—whether that was where to get the best BBQ in town or local myths and practices. At the skeptical looks he was receiving from Michael and the attending, he added, "I'm just telling you what I've heard."

The other resident, Taya, snorted, then grimaced at the long, thin splinter of wood impaling the moaning boy on the gurney that had been rolled in front of her.

"Oh, for God's sake," said the attending, disgusted. "I hate stupidity." She dismissed the conversation and turned back to her patient. "We're going to need a CT scan for this one," she gritted.

Michael forced his attention back to his own patient, well-versed by this point in his residency at putting aside anything that might distract him from caring for a patient. But the mention of a haunted house… _Stop_. Michael rolled his head around on his neck, listening for the responding pops before focusing deliberately on the x-rays at hand. _There_. Five more breaks. _Damn._

The house collapse had not been the only emergency that night – Halloween was always a nightmare at the hospital. Any hospital. Tricks gone wrong, drinking, driving, over-anxious parents who were sure little Jimmy's vomiting was due to poisoned treats instead of the fact the kid had eaten 107 pieces of candy while his mother and father had their backs turned. Michael had learned to hate Halloween since he'd started working in hospitals.

By the time they'd cleared the ER, it was closer to seven in the morning than six, and Michael was sitting in the doctor's lounge, another cup of coffee in hand trying to decide whether he was going to need breakfast or sleep more when his shift ended in 20 minutes. Today was… Monday. No, Tuesday, which meant Jake's first class started at 9:10. If Michael called to see about meeting for breakfast, his little brother would be pissed about being woken before absolutely necessary – 8:55 in Jake's opinion – given they lived within walking/sprinting distance of the law school, but Michael didn't much care. Jake generally forgave these "early" morning wake up calls once he'd had coffee. Michael reached for his phone.

"McCrae."

Michael didn't quite stifle his groan.

"Don't whine," was the clipped reply. As attending, Camille Hubbard, had the least amount of compassion Michael had ever experienced – and it didn't matter if you were a colleague (subordinate or superior), or a patient. She dispensed equal opportunity contempt. Sadly, she was good enough at her job that most people gave her a pass.

Michael didn't respond to the reprimand, just stuck his phone back in his pocket and stood.

"Another bus is on its way in, and you're the only one who's still around."

Of course he was. Everyone else had made themselves scarce when things had calmed down – available by page, but not dumb enough to actually hang out in the first place Hubbard would look if she needed an assist. He was never going to learn.

"Yeah," he said, resigned, following her out of the room.

He and Hubbard stood outside the ER doors waiting on the arrival of the ambulance. When it arrived, the guy on the gurney they were unloading was tall, feet hanging off the end, one leg splinted with what looked like another compound fracture, the other bent somewhat awkwardly, like the EMTs had tried to make it fit on the stretcher as best they could. The cervical collar was almost unrecognizable given that it was coated with blood, and the strap across the man's forehead was the same crimson. Michael could see even under the gore that the skull was fractured, a slight, but noticeable depression at the hairline over the left eyebrow. The man's face had already swollen, features blurred and distorted under the congealing blood.

"Has he been sedated?" barked Hubbard as she trotted alongside the gurney, already lifting an eyelid and checking for responsiveness.

"No," returned the EMT sharply, the "you, bitch" implied if not stated explicitly. "He's unconscious." George was in and out of the ER with enough regularity to be familiar with Hubbard's bedside manner, but that knowledge didn't always make it easier to deal with her default assumption that everyone around her was incompetent. "He's another victim from the house collapse."

Michael's eyes snapped to the EMT. That meant the guy had been hours without appropriate treatment for what looked like a massive trauma to his brain. 

"Yeah," agreed George grimly, without Michael actually having to say a word. "Evidently one of the initial kids was finally coherent enough to talk, and they realized there was another person in the basement. Looked like this guy was right under the spot where the floor came down – the rest of the kids were on the fringe – believe it or not – of the collapse."

It was hard to believe, given the injuries they'd seen earlier. They'd made it to the examining room and the background details no longer mattered as much as assessing the man's current condition.

Michael stepped into the role of support for Hubbard without thought as she examined the head wound. She might not be easy to work with, but Camille Hubbard was one of the best in the field of emergency medicine. Frankly, Michael was always glad for the opportunity to watch her work and learn what he could.

The CT scan confirmed what they could see quite plainly with their eyes—depressed cranial fracture. The man had been stabilized in the field, airway cleared and circulation assessed, and now Hubbard was focused on determining the next step in treatment.

"Bring that light around, McCrae."

Michael dodged the people working on the patient's broken leg—yep, another compound fracture of the femur, ugh—and internal injuries, swinging one of the overhead lamps toward the head of the table. He expected nothing more than the chance to observe. And maybe hand the woman instruments. If she was feeling generous.

Dr. Hubbard jerked her chin at the head wound and then at the CT results. "What do you see?"

Michael faltered. Hubbard was notoriously stingy with her expertise, sharing it with residents only when ordered to by her superiors. Not that the woman considered anyone her superior.

"Well?" she snapped.

And Michael stepped forward.

xxxx

Dean woke slowly, groggy and aching. He'd gone to bed early the night before – though "night" wasn't really accurate, more like late-afternoon – with a headache he hadn't been able to get rid of and a throat that hurt so bad he could barely swallow. Sleep hadn't improved either his head or his throat, and he stifled a groan as he rolled over.

In the dim light of morning filtering through the blinds, Dean could see that Sam's bed was rumpled, but empty. Dean didn't hear his brother in the bathroom, which meant he could have it himself, if he could make it over there. He got painfully to his feet and shuffled his way toward the toilet.

When he staggered back out of the bathroom, Dean leaned heavily on the doorjamb before aiming his exhausted body back to the bed. He collapsed onto the mattress and lay there unmoving for a long time, trying to catch his breath.

_Damn_.

He wondered if Sam had gone to get breakfast and hoped vaguely that he wouldn't bring any food back with him as just the thought of eating made Dean's stomach roll uncomfortably. Dean swallowed convulsively, felt himself start to drift back to sleep and didn't fight it.

xxxx

"Hey."

Jake turned around at the sound of his brother's voice.

"What are you doing here?" Michael looked beyond exhausted, and there was a bright red smudge of what Jake knew had to be blood on the hem of his scrub pants.

"Looking for you. I brought you something to eat." Jake held up a bag of his brother's favorite breakfast tacos.

Michael reached for it eagerly, if somewhat clumsily, and took the cup of coffee Jake handed over next. "I'm off shift," he said, heading toward the break room as Jake trailed after him. "How'd you know I was here?"

Jake scoffed. "Where else would you be?"

Michael sank into one of the couches, setting his cup of coffee on the nearby table. He gave his brother a rueful look. "Fair enough." His eyes sharpened as they skimmed over Jake's face. "You look hung-over," he observed clinically.

Jake laughed. "I am a little bit, yeah." There'd been a party the previous night for Halloween, and though Jake hadn't planned to stay long, he had. And had too much to drink. And not gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep last night. He'd made his 9:10 class—barely—but a lot of his classmates hadn't.

Michael shook his head. "You eat anything?"

"Not up for it quite yet," Jake admitted.

"I guess the party lived up to its name," Michael commented wryly.

The annual Halloween bash had been a tradition at the law school for decades, and though it was no longer officially called the "Fall Drunk," like it had been early on, the principle remained the same for many students.

Jake shrugged. He reached for Michael's coffee, and his brother handed it over absently before turning his attention to wolfing down the tacos. Jake took a sip and grimaced at the bitter blackness of it. Jake still needed a little cream and sugar in his own.

They sat for a while as Michael ate.

"Come on," Jake said. "I'll give you a ride home." It was just after 11, and Michael had been at the hospital for over 40 hours. It was time for him to leave.

"Yeah," Michael said tiredly. He wadded up his trash and swallowed down the last of the coffee after taking it out of Jake's hand. "I've just gotta check on one patient before…"

"You 'gotta'?" Jake interrupted. "Or you wanna?"

Michael gave him a small smile. "Wanna," he admitted.

Jake tried to stare his brother down, but Michael's gaze didn't falter.

Jake sighed. "Fine. But I'm going with you to make sure you don't get lost and wander into another emergency," he grumbled.

Michael's smile turned into a grin. "When did you become Mom?" he teased.

"Shut up," Jake muttered.

Sadly, though, it was true. Since they'd moved in together last spring with Michael starting his residency at the hospital, and Jake slated to start law school in the fall, Jake had unwittingly taken on Aunt Jo's tendency to fuss and worry over his brother. Michael had started at the hospital right away while Jake had gotten a job at a local coffee shop to earn some money and keep himself occupied. He'd had plenty of time, though, over the summer to get in the habit of making sure his brother ate and slept occasionally. Starting school had distracted him, admittedly, but Jake was determined to do what he could to keep Michael from working himself to death when he had time.

"It won't take long, Jakey, I promise," Michael assured him. "The guy is still in surgery. I just want to see how it's going."

Jake followed Michael out of the lounge and down the hall to the surgery department.

"When's your next class?" Michael asked.

"2:15."

"Are you going to be home tonight?" Michael used his ID to get them into the back part of the surgery.

"Not until late. I have a writing project due on Friday that I've got to get finished. I'm going to stay at the library as long as I can stand it."

"Okay. I think I'm going to make chili after I get some sleep."

"Sweet." He thought for a second. "Maybe I'll work at home," he mused.

Michael tossed him a glance from where he'd moved toward the door that led into the actual surgery theater, and Jake just shrugged.

"I'll be right back," Michael said and eased into the scrubbing area, from where, Jake suspected, he'd watch whatever operation it was that he was interested in.

Jake settled in to wait, wishing he'd brought his backpack. He might have been able to get a little studying in while Michael was checking on his patient.

His brother wasn't gone long, though.

"Everything OK?" Jake asked.

"Hard to know," Michael said grimly. "He had a bad skull fracture and a compound fracture of the femur."

"Compound? That's where the bone sticks out?" Jake choked on a gag reflex at the mere thought of it. "Gross."

"Yeah." Michael scrubbed his hands over his head. "Let's go."

xxxx

When Dean woke again it was significantly darker in the room. He lay on his back, head still pounding, throat feeling like sandpaper. He didn't know that he'd ever felt this bad without being actually physically injured. He rolled his head gingerly to the side. The other bed was still rumpled and empty. He peered toward the bathroom, but it also seemed vacant to his gritty eyes.

"Sam?" he rasped. Started to cough weakly.

_Damn_.

There was no answer, and Dean slapped haphazardly at the bedside table trying to reach his phone. When he managed to get a hand on it, he hauled the little piece of technology toward him. Had it always been this heavy?

He peered at the display. It was almost five in the evening and there was nothing to indicate Sam had either texted or left him a voicemail. Dean struggled to remember what he and Sam had talked about before Dean had turned in the night before. As far as he could recall, Sam had been sitting on the opposite bed, watching TV.

Slowly, Dean raised his head enough to squint for the speed dial and pushed the button. When he got Sam's voicemail – after almost falling back asleep while the phone was ringing—he managed, "Hey, man." Dean cleared his throat around the pain and the roughness. "Where are you?" He fished around in his foggy brain for something else to say, but couldn't come up with anything, so he ended the call. He wondered if it would sound as pathetic to Sam when he listened as it did to Dean as he'd said it. He let his head ease back in to the pillow. Not to have heard from Sam for such a long time was not good. He needed to get up and go look for his brother.

But maybe he'd rest for just a second.

xxxx

When Dean woke up again, it was full dark, and it took a minute for his brain to clear. Then…

"Damn it!" Dean cursed himself as he struggled upright, had to pause, panting once he was sitting. His head was pounding and there was an exhaustion in his bones that had him listing to the side, just wanting to lie back down again.

"No." Dean ground his teeth, jerking up, forcing himself to stay vertical as he searched the bedclothes for his phone. He found it under his butt, but there was still nothing from Sam.

Dean got unsteadily to his feet and headed for the door. It took him a little while to get the bolt undone, but when he opened it, what he was looking for was right there. The Impala was still in her spot in front of their room. So Sam hadn't driven anywhere.

Dean closed the door behind him and dialed Sam again. He was shuffling around the room, casting around for his boots when someone answered the phone.

"Hello?"

The voice was young and female and definitely not Sam. This could not be good.

"Who is this?" Dean ground out.

"This is Detective Irma Moreno. Who is this?"

Dean swallowed. _Damn_. "My name is Dean. I'm trying to reach my brother."

It was odd to use his real name, but a few months ago he and Sam had paid _a lot _of money to have a very talented, very expensive tech person scrub their history. Sam had taken care of the details, but he'd assured Dean that they were clean in the system. It had been a good feeling. And if they kept their heads down, they should be able to stay off the radar of anyone who _might _remember who they were.

"Dean, I'm at the scene of a house collapse, and this phone was found in the rubble."

Dean froze. "Was he…? Is he…?" Dean couldn't get the question out.

"All of the victims have been taken to Brackenridge hospital. At this point I'm not aware of any fatalities." The woman was kind, if cool, as she relayed the information. "Do you know why your brother would have been in the house?" she asked.

He hesitated. "What house?" Dean asked, though he had sneaking suspicion that he knew.

"It's at 8432 Bowie St." She pronounced it _boo-y_ like the knife. Not _bow-y_ like the singer.

Yep. The house they'd been checking out for a haunting. And just down the street from where they were currently staying. But the ghost shouldn't be active for another week, so Dean couldn't think of any reason Sam would have been there.

"I can't think of any reason," Dean said truthfully. In spite of the urgency now nagging at him, the exhaustion in his voice didn't fade any. "I've been sick, and I just realized Sam wasn't here."

"Where are you, Dean?"

Dean told her the name of the motel, not seeing a reason to hide where he was.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "That's not far from the house."

Dean knew that. They'd deliberately picked this place for its proximity.

"Really? We're just passing through, so I'm not familiar with this area. Where did you say my brother was again?" He wanted off the phone, wanted to get to Sam.

Dean coughed heavily into the phone. It was only partially put on. He'd felt the tickle of a cough in his painful throat since the conversation had started, but felt like some indication of illness might win him a little sympathy. Unfortunately once he let the coughing out, he couldn't stop and by the time he was done hacking up his lungs, he was breathless and nauseous. Maybe not such a great idea.

Except that… "Wow, that sounds painful," said the detective sympathetically.

"Yeah," Dean rasped, wiping at the moisture that had sprung up in his eyes. He wheezed into the phone, "I'm sorry, I…"

"Don't apologize, please," said the detective. "Listen, I'm not sure exactly which of the victims your brother might be, but all the casualties were taken to the ER at Brack." She rattled off the address. "You might get there as soon as you can. I'm sure they'll have information about your brother." He heard her talking in a low voice to someone in the background. "I'll have someone take your brother's phone by the hospital with the rest of the personal belongings we're finding."

"Thanks," Dean said sincerely if still a little breathlessly. "I'll head that way."

When he could get air into his lung again.

After he hung up with the detective, Dean forced himself to pause and catch his breath. His mind was screaming _move, move, move_, but his body just wasn't having it. Finally, he resumed his search for his boots, eyes narrowed against the pain in his head. When he found them – one sticking out from under Sam's bed, he bent over to pick them up off the floor and almost face planted into the carpet. Fortunately, he managed to catch himself before he fell. But it took him another few minutes to regain his equilibrium and actually get his shoes on.

When he finally made it into the bathroom to splash water on his face and brush his teeth, the reflection in the mirror did not look good – he was pale and his eyes looked oddly swollen. He definitely needed a shower, but all things considered, it was possible he'd pass out if he tried right now. Better to make it to the hospital, even looking like he'd been hit by a truck, than not to make it at all.

xxxx


	3. Chapter 2

_Contact_, Ch. 2

_Just a quick disclaimer: There is going to be more discussion of medical stuff in this story than I've ever done before. And, honestly, I don't feel very comfortable with that. However, I don't have time to get my medical or hospital administration degrees before I finish this! I'm trying to do the best research I can on the interwebs, but I know I'm going to mess things up. If you're a medical person and haven't already abandoned this story due to egregious errors – thanks! And I hope you'll continue to be patient with me. :)_

_On with the show…._

xxxx

Dean had to take another few minutes after he'd parked the car to gather up the energy he needed to go into the building. He'd forgotten to take anything for his head before he left the motel, so he rooted around lethargically in the glove box until he uncovered the bottle of Advil they kept there. Shaking out three capsules with the care of someone who was afraid his head might fall off, Dean uncapped an old bottle of water and carefully tossed the medication to the back of his mouth before chasing it with a slug of water.

"Ow, ow, ow," he whispered when swallowing reawakened the pain in his throat.

The walk from the parking garage was exhausting, and when he approached the information desk, the volunteer sitting there was already standing and pointing down a hall where Dean could see the sign for the ER. _Awesome._ Dean shook his head.

"No," he rasped. "I'm actually looking for someone who's probably been admitted."

The older woman in the pink smock eyed him with concern. "Are you sure, sweetie? You don't look good."

"You should see the other guy," he tried to deflect with an attempt at a charming grin. The woman did not seem impressed. Dean sighed. "My brother was in the house collapse?" he asked. "I don't know if he's been identified. His name is Sam Winchester."

The volunteer's expression changed again, and she turned immediately to her computer, typing quickly. "Here he is. Intensive care, fifth floor."

"Thank you." Dean looked around uncertainly. He needed to know… "Where…?"

The woman leaned over the desk slightly and pointed. "Elevators."

Dean was already turning around and flapped a hand at her over his shoulder in thanks. When he reached the elevators he pushed the top button. He fought the urge to lean against the wall as he waited, because he wasn't sure he wouldn't just slide down to the floor and not be able to get back up again. He held himself stiffly, body tensed in an effort to stave off the weariness loosening his muscles and making him feel like the only appropriate position for him was horizontal.

When the elevator dinged and the door slid open, Dean stepped inside and concentrated some more on staying upright until he could move again. The ride to the fifth floor seemed to happen between blinks, and Dean was vaguely concerned that he might have actually drifted off there for a moment. But it didn't matter as long as he was where he was supposed to be. And he was, if the desk in front of him with the sign that said "Intensive Care Unit" was any indication. And he hoped it was.

There wasn't anyone at the desk and as much as Dean wanted to see his brother as soon as possible, he decided that asking about seeing Sam while looking – apparently – like someone who needed an emergency room immediately might not help him out much in that department. He could see a men's room to his right, so he made his way there.

His reflection confirmed that his appearance hadn't improved any since he'd last seen himself in a mirror. He blinked heavily at his image and tried to think through possible triage. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. Maybe he could pass it off as a hangover. Last night had been… Monday? Not really a party night, but. Oh. And Halloween. That really might work. He turned the water on as cold as he could and splashed it over his face. He forced his eyes open as wide as he could and plastered on a grin. He checked his reflection. Yeesh. That was going to get the psych ward called. So he tuned the grin down to a more rueful, damn-my-head-hurts-maybe-that-last-round-of-shots-wasn't-such-a-good-idea level and tried again. Better.

"Hi."

The guy who was now at the info desk gave Dean a doubtful look as he approached.

"They told me downstairs that my brother is up here – Sam Winchester." Dean was doing his best not to sound as exhausted as he felt, but he didn't have to force the impatience he was feeling into his voice.

The man checked the computer and nodded. "He's here."

"I'd like to see him."

Narrowed eyes ran over him, assessing. "If you're sick…."

"Look, man," Dean said, rubbing his hand over his neck. "I had a _bad_ Halloween, and I was sleeping it off, but got woken up by someone calling to tell me a house collapsed on my little brother. Can you just give me a break?"

With a shake of his head and a huff of a laugh, the guy hit the button that opened the door into the ICU. "Ask at the nurse's station."

Dean thumped his fist twice on the desk. "Thanks."

While the nurse at the interior desk gave him a suspicious look not unlike the man's outside, he still led Dean directly to his brother.

"The primary concern right now is the head injury," the nurse told him as they entered the room, "though Dr. Ward said the surgery went well. They were able to repair the skull fracture, and they've implanted a bolt to monitor the pressure for now. Sam also suffered a severe leg fracture that's going to require intensive physical therapy."

Dean nodded along, feeling somewhat dazed, as the guy talked, making his way to the bed, eyes already on an almost unrecognizable Sam. His brother's face was puffy, the usual sharp angles of his cheek bones and jaw blurred by swelling from the surgery and the original trauma. Sam's left leg was encased in an oversized splint, held motionless by a series of pulleys and what looked like a weight that hung off the end of the bed.

"Can I stay?" Dean asked. Different hospitals had different policies on visiting, and he was relieved when the nurse nodded.

"That chair pulls out almost flat," he said, gesturing. "And I'll get you a pillow," he added as he left.

"Thanks," Dean said after him. With the nurse out of sight, Dean sank – collapsed, actually – into the indicated chair, the ability to pretend draining out of him now that he was with Sam, and they were alone.

He turned toward his unconscious brother and just for a moment rested his forehead against the mattress by Sam's arm.

"What the hell, Sammy?" he muttered.

xxxx

When Dean woke it was light again. He'd settled back in the chair after the nurse – Andy – had brought him a pillow, wrestling the damned thing into a reclining position before essentially passing out. He had hazy memories of people coming in and out during the night, but nothing that had really roused him. He rubbed a hand over his face trying to clear the cobwebs, but the exhaustion that he'd been feeling the last few days still weighed him down. It didn't seem like any amount of sleep was helping.

He checked his watch – it was almost 10 – then glanced at the bed. Sam looked even worse than he had the night before, the sunlight streaming in from the window showing the bruising and swelling on his face and body in stark relief. In addition to the mess of his head, the skin of Sam's arms and shoulders exposed around the hospital gown he wore were mottled with ugly looking bruising that made Dean's already aching body twinge in sympathy. It had been a long time since either of them had been injured this badly. Dean hadn't missed it.

Slowly Dean got to his feet.

"I'm just hitting the head," he rasped at his brother. "Don't go anywhere."

He made his way to the bathroom. Given how crappy he felt, Dean really didn't want to check the mirror to see how bad he looked, but he figured he might as well be prepared. His eyes flicked to his reflection, and he winced. It was not good – he wouldn't have thought it possible, but he looked even worse than he had the night before. He needed to think of some reason for his appearance as he was fairly certain the nursing staff would not be falling for a multi-day hangover excuse.

When he came out of the bathroom, he was met by a nurse who was unfamiliar. She took one look at him, and the frown on her face told him he was busted.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Dean tipped his head at Sam. "I'm Sam's brother."

She glanced down at the chart in her hand. "Mr. … Winchester?" At Dean's tight nod, she continued briskly, "We can't allow ill people in the ICU. The chance of infection…"

"Yeah," Dean admitted tiredly. "I thought it was a hangover, but…."

"You're going to need to leave immediately and…"

"Look." Dean wasn't sure that interrupting the woman would help his case any, but he wasn't leaving yet, and there was no point in letting her think he was. "I don't want to cause trouble, and I don't want to make my brother sick any more than you want him to be sick, but I'm not leaving until I talk to the doctor. I'll do whatever you want me to do, but I'm the only family he has, and I need to know what's going on."

The nurse glowered at him for a long minute. Then huffed out a breath. "Well. You can't wait in here."

Dean started to protest, but was unable to muster up the breath to say a word after his last statement, and the nurse plowed on. "That's not negotiable. You can sit in the waiting room outside of the ICU until the doctor gets here. I'll let you come in when he's evaluating your brother, but you're wearing a mask and scrubbing with anti-bacterial soap and not getting anywhere close to your brother or any other patient." She paused, daring him to contradict her. "Do you understand me?" she asked sternly.

"Yes, ma'am, I do," Dean said. And he did. He didn't like it, but he didn't have the energy to fight her on it.

She pointed to the door, physically blocking his access to Sam. "I'll let you know when the doctor arrives."

Dean nodded, hesitated before obeying the gesture. "I'll be back, Sammy," he said, angling his head to address his brother around the nurse.

There was a slight softening in the woman's expression. "I'll let you know," she said again.

xxxx

Michael shrugged into his white coat and slung his stethoscope around his neck. He'd managed just over 24 hours away from the hospital. Jake had mocked him as he'd left the house, but Michael had wanted to get in on surgical rounds to see how some of the patients that had come through the ER Halloween night were doing. As an emergency department resident, Michael didn't often venture into other parts of the hospital, but he liked knowing how things worked outside his own area of interest and growing expertise. He felt like it made him better in assessing emergencies if he knew more about where patients were headed next.

"Were you in on the house collapse the other night?" Charlie Warren was a fourth year med student that Michael had gotten to know some since he'd arrived at the hospital. They were waiting for Dr. Arnold to join them to lead rounds.

Michael nodded. "Yeah. Figured I'd see how y'all were treating them," he grinned at his friend.

Before Charlie could respond, Dr. Arnold stepped into the group. "Dr. McCrae, glad you could join us."

"Thank you, sir," Michael said. It wasn't the first time he'd trailed a group Dr. Arnold was shepherding through rounds.

"Did I see you in the gallery for one of the house collapse surgeries?" the man asked, glancing down at the list of patients they would be seeing that day.

"Yes, sir. Fractured skull and compound fracture of the femur."

"Right." The doctor looked around the group. "Dr. Mani, you were in on that surgery, weren't you?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Let's start there then. I want to check the bolt we inserted and monitor the intracranial pressure." Arnold started down the hall. "Dr. Mani, fill in your colleagues."

They entered the ICU through the staff corridors.

"Doctors," the nurse at the desk greeted them.

"Jane," said Dr. Arnold, "we're going to start with…" he checked his notes again, "Winchester this afternoon. 522?"

Michael blinked.

The nurse nodded. "His brother's here in the waiting room. He's sick, but I told him if he waited outside, he could talk to you before he left. I'm going to go get him."

In something of a daze, Michael turned to watch her go, almost following her to see…

"Mike."

Michael whipped back around at the sound of his name. Charlie jerked his head in the direction the rest of the group was going. "You coming?"

Michael's head swiveled toward the nurse, then back to his friend. "Yeah." He hustled to catch up. "Sorry." He passed Charlie quickly and pretty much elbowed his way to the front of the huddle of students around the bed.

The man lying there had been cleaned up since Michael had first seen him, the streaks of blood and dust no longer masking his features. The swelling, too, had abated some and…

"Sam Winchester is a 34 year old male who suffered a series of blunt trauma injuries when a house collapsed on top of him."

_Holy crap._

xxxx

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean came awake slowly, foggy and achy, but responsive to the snap of the nurse's voice above him. He'd stretched out on a couch in the waiting room and….

"The doctor is here to see your brother." The woman stepped back as Dean pushed himself up off the couch. "Put this on." She handed him a surgical mask that he fumbled over the lower part of his face. "And use this on your hands and arms up to your elbows."

She held out and upended bottle of sanitizer and Dean extended his hands. She squeezed an enormous dollop of the liquid into each palm. As Dean began to rub the cleanser over his hands and arms, the woman started to walk.

"Follow me."

Dean stumbled after her, struggling to keep up both physically and mentally. He'd obeyed the woman almost instinctively, not completely sure in the moment what she was telling him, but aware on some level that he needed to do what she said.

As they entered the ICU Dean's head began to clear again, though the damn headache was still present in full force. _Doctor, right._ They were going to look at Sam and tell Dean what the hell was going on with his brother. He stepped up his pace to keep stride as best he could with the nurse.

When they got to Sam's room, there was a crowd of white coats standing around the bed, one young woman talking while the rest nodded and took notes. Dean opened his mouth to ask how his brother was, but shut it again when the nurse frowned at him, putting a finger to her lips. "Wait," she whispered. Dean frowned back at her, but did as he was told, frustrated when he realized she couldn't see his mouth behind the stupid mask. He narrowed his eyes at her as ferociously as he could to indicate his displeasure. She ignored him, attention now on the doctors in the room.

They weren't talking at a volume that allowed Dean to hear well enough to really follow what they were talking about, but he caught a reference to pressure on the brain and a follow up remark about possible ramifications of damage. He was afraid for a minute he might be physically sick. He forced the bile back down and took a slight step forward, straining to hear better, intent on the oldest doctor in the room, the one who was guiding the conversation about Dean's brother.

He was so focused on the lead doctor that it took a little while for it to register with Dean that he was being watched. It was prickle at the back of his very tired brain that made Dean take his eyes off the older man and begin to check for who might be watching him. His gaze moved over the cluster of student doctors, but they were either attentive to the one talking or examining Sam with assessing, clinical eyes. Then his attention was caught by a man standing right next to the bed Sam was in, one hand actually on the bed, almost touching Sam's arm, head bent slightly, eyes currently taking in all of Sam, not just the horrible injuries the rest of the doctors were focused on.

When the man's head came up, his eyes met Dean's directly, astonished. And familiar.

_Michael_.

Dean actually mouthed the word behind his mask, knew his eyes were now as comically wide as Michael's.

"Mr. Winchester?"

With an effort, Dean wrested his attention from Michael – _Michael_ – to the doctor who was addressing him.

"Yes," he managed hoarsely.

"I understand you're Sam's only family?"

Dean's eyes flicked to Michael. "Yes."

"And you're sick?"

Again, Dean looked at Michael – couldn't seem to help himself – and saw the kid – though, God, so not a kid any more – narrow his eyes, taking in Dean critically, too, now. Michael's mouth tightened unhappily at what he saw and, man, he looked like his aunt in that moment and Dean couldn't…

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Dean." Michael. Now right in front of Dean, hand on Dean's bicep, head dipping slightly to catch Dean's eyes and when had Michael gotten taller than Dean? Why did the kids around him insist on….

"Dean." Michael said it with an oddly sharp yet gentle tone, shook his arm slightly.

Dean blinked, coming back to himself. He hated that he kept fading out like that. "Sorry. Yeah. I feel like crap." When he looked at the doctor he saw the man was now looking at Michael in confusion.

"You know the Winchesters, Dr. McCrae?" The question was simply curious, and the rest of the little group had similar expressions on their faces.

_Doctor?_

"Yes, sir. Dean and his brother are old friends of our family." Michael's hand was still wrapped lightly around Dean's arm, not letting go. He looked at Sam in the bed and shook his head. "I had no idea it was Sam when he came into the ER." Looked back at Dean. "It's been a long time."

"Well, do you want to fill in your friend while we continue with our rounds?"

"Sure. Thank you."

The doctor nodded and started toward the door. "Be sure you have Mr. Winchester follow protocols with his illness."

"Yes, sir, I will."

The grip on Dean's arm shifted. "C'mon, man," Michael said. "Sit down." He guided-slash-manhandled Dean toward a chair in a corner of the room, away from Sam. Dean did as he was told.

Michael maneuvered another chair close to Dean's and sat down, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"How sick are you?" he asked. "Saying you look like crap would be a massive understatement."

Dean shrugged. He didn't need to be told that. "How's Sam?"

Michael sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "His condition is serious, Dean. Surgery went well, so what could be fixed has been. But there's always a concern about infection with a compound fracture. And with the skull fracture…." He broke off, sighing again. "Well, at this point it's going to be a matter of waiting to see how he's functioning when he wakes up."

"How bad is his head?" Dean couldn't bring himself to say "brain injury."

Michael grimaced slightly. "That's really where the waiting and seeing is going to be important."

"How bad could it be?" Considering how things usually went for them, Dean figured he might as well be prepared.

Michael hesitated, then, "Given where the injury is, there may be issues with Sam's language and logic functions as well as some memory impairment."

Dean felt ice steal down his arms and legs. Sam with language and logic and memory impairment. He closed his eyes, drew in a shaky breath.

"Those are _possibilities_, Dean," Michael said calmly. "You asked how bad. We don't know yet how Sam's been impacted, OK? This is why we need to wait and see."

Dean nodded, opening his eyes. "Right," he said heavily.

"Good." Michael's eyes were running over Dean assessingly again. "Let's talk about you now," he said. "What are your symptoms?"

Dean sighed. Closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. There was no point in not coming clean any more. "Headache, sore throat, I hurt all over, can't stay awake." It took him a long minute to realize that Michael actually had a hand on Dean's forehead. "Stop." He moved his head sharply to dislodge Michael. Then groaned when the pain in his head exploded, squeezed his eyes tighter closed.

"Fever," Michael said, and Dean slitted his eyes open to glare. Michael's right hand then moved to his neck, left hand joining on the other side, pressing up under his jawline by his ears. "Your lymph nodes are swollen. I'm going to get a thermometer to see how bad your temp is." Michael stood. "Stay here," he ordered, pointing at Dean.

Like Dean had a choice. He shut his eyes again.

"Open your mouth."

Michael back. Dean obeyed, though he didn't open his eyes, closing his lips around the thermometer as it was stuck under his tongue.

"Give me your finger." Michael was already taking Dean's hand, separating Dean's forefinger from the rest. There was a sharp jab.

"Ow!" Dean yelped, sitting up abruptly, thermometer falling out of his mouth. "What the hell, man?"

Michael scowled as he picked up the thermometer from Dean's lap and reset it. "Open."

"You need to work on your bedside manner," Dean complained before doing what he was told.

Michael ignored him. "I need a blood sample to be sure," he said, doing something with the little instrument he'd stabbed Dean with, "but I think it's possible you have mono."

It took Dean a second to process that. The thermometer beeped, and Dean took it out of his mouth. "What?"

"It doesn't happen much with old men like you," Michael said. "But it does sometimes." He looked at the thermometer. "101.4. Not too bad." He smiled slightly. "You haven't been kissing teenage girls, have you, you pervert?"

Dean didn't dignify that with an answer, just leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. Because of course he would have mono with Sam laid up due to a house collapsing on him. Of course. "How would I even have gotten it?" he rasped.

"Hard to tell. Drinking after someone who has it. Sharing a toothbrush. Mono incubates in adults for over a month, so you may never know." Dean could hear the shrug in Michael's voice. "We should probably test Sam just in case."

Well, sure, Dean thought. Let's add mono to a brain injury for the kid.

The silence stretched out for a while and Dean had, frankly, almost fallen back asleep when Michael cleared his throat gingerly.

"Dean."

Dean opened his eyes.

"Sam's probably going to have a long road ahead of him and with you sick…." He gave Dean an uncertain look. "Is there anyone I can call? Maybe Mr. Singer…?"

Dean shook his head. "No." He rubbed a heavy hand over his face. "Bobby…. Bobby died a few years ago," he told Michael.

Michael met Dean's eyes soberly, sadness and sympathy there, understanding. "I'm so sorry," he said sincerely.

It had been years – _years_ – since Bobby had died, but Dean felt an unexpected tightening in his chest at the simple statement from someone who knew him and who'd known Bobby, who knew what Bobby had meant to him and to Sam. Dean thought maybe Michael's was the first expression of human sympathy he'd received since Bobby's death.

He cleared his throat. "Thanks," he managed.

Michael didn't say anything for a while. "What…," he hesitated. "What would you think if I called Mom and Luke?" he asked. "They'd want to know, want to help. If you'd let them."

It's not like Dean couldn't have anticipated that Michael would suggest that. Of course he would. Because that's what this family did. Took in sick, wounded strangers and treated them like they belonged. That's what they'd done over ten years ago when he and Sam had first landed on their doorstep. What they'd continued to do until the life the Winchesters lived had taken them so far into the darkness there hadn't been any going back to the comfort they'd found with the Sweeds. At least it had felt that way.

When Dean didn't respond right away, Michael huffed out a breath. "I don't know why I'm even asking. It's not like either of us really have a choice. I have to tell Aunt Jo I saw you. And you know nothing in the 'verse is going to keep her from hightailing it down here."

Dean couldn't help the rueful smile in response. He did know that. And he sighed, looking over at Sam in the hospital bed.

But he didn't answer, couldn't quite wrap his head around seeing Michael again, being dropped back into the orbit of the family that had meant so much to him and Sam so long ago. That he knew they'd hurt and disappointed with their silence these last years.

"Unless… Unless you really don't want me to call."

Dean dragged his eyes back to Michael at the quiet offer.

"It's your choice," he said softly. "But, it would mean a lot to them – to us – if you'd let me do that. I won't force you, though, if you don't want." His elbows had been on his knees, and he dropped his head slightly. "I've always figured it must have been something…bad that kept y'all from coming back, from letting us know how you were doing," he whispered. Then his head came up, and his lips quirked in a small grin. "Jake googles y'all, you know. Every once in a while just to see if you pop up." His face sobered. "Mostly, I think, to see if you're dead. And I know Luke has checked for y'all in the databases he has access to." Michael glanced at Sam, didn't speak for a beat, and since Dean couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to, the silence dragged out. Finally, "It's been hard not to know," Michael said, voice tight. He didn't look at Dean.

"I'm sorry," Dean said tiredly. And he was. More than he could say. "It _was_ bad. For a long time. And we just couldn't…" he broke off, shook his head. "We just couldn't."

Michael turned to look at him and after a second, nodded – more sad understanding. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Dean drew in a shaky breath. "Yeah. Well." He looked over at Sam, still unmoving and unhelpful in terms of deciding what to do here.

Michael heaved a big sigh and stood. "Look. You don't have to decide right now, OK? But you should know, it's not going to matter to Mom or Luke. You do know that, right?" He waited until Dean turned to look at him. "We know your life is… what it is. We never thought y'all just decided we weren't important to you any more, OK? We knew – all of us knew – that it must have been something enormous to keep you away. But it still sucked." He gave a small smile. "We were _worried _about you, not ever mad." He paused. "OK, maybe Jake was a little mad."

Dean huffed out an uneven laugh. Ran a hand over his eyes that had gotten kinda damp over the last few minutes.

"We _love _y'all. And we only want to help in whatever way you'll let us." He reached over to grip Dean's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze and a gentle shake. "I'm going to run this to the lab. Stay here."

Dean nodded, then tipped his head against the back of the chair. And fell asleep.

xxxx


	4. Chapter 3

_Contact_, Ch. 3

_xxxx_

_This chapter is going out a little quicker than the others, but since it was done, I figured I'd go ahead and post it! However, please don't think this sets a precedent. __ I'm headed into a busy few weeks, so I'm pretty sure I won't get the next chapter posted so quickly!_

xxxx

When Dean woke it was almost dark again. He struggled into a sitting position from where he'd been slouched down in the chair and blinked around trying to get his bearings. _What the hell?_ He was really going to have to stop sitting if it meant he was going to lose hours every time he did so. He knuckled his eyes, trying to clear them of grit before turning his attention to where Sam lay in the hospital bed. He sat for a second trying to decide whether he should (and could) get out of the chair to check on his brother.

It took him longer than it should have to realize that there was someone sitting in the chair by Sam on the opposite side of the bed, watching Dean with a smirk on a face that was vaguely familiar.

Dean squinted. "Jake?"

"Hey, man."

Befuddled by the exhaustion dragging at his brain, Dean could only stare—another grown man where there'd been a boy the last time Dean had seen him. How was Jake even here? Had Michael gone ahead and called Jo even after saying it was Dean's choice? Had Dean told Michael to contact Jo, and he just didn't remember? He couldn't pull the information he needed out of his head.

In the meantime Jake had gotten up from where he'd been sitting, putting aside a hefty book before approaching Dean. Dean stared up at him.

Jake sat across from Dean in the chair Michael had vacated however many hours ago. "Don't worry," he said, somehow knowing what Dean's unspoken fear had been. "Michael hasn't called Aunt Jo. I live here; we're roommates." He gave Dean an exaggerated once-over. "You look like crap."

Breathing out a laugh, Dean held out a hand. "Damn, Jakey. When did you grow up?"

"Well, it's been awhile," Jake said dryly, taking the offered hand and shaking it. At Dean's slight wince, he added more warmly. "It's good to see you, Dean." He tipped his head at the hospital bed. "I'd ask how y'all have been doing, but the answer is pretty obvious."

"It's been a bad couple of days," Dean allowed. He looked at his brother and then back at Jake. "Did I miss anything?" he asked roughly, cleared his burning throat gingerly.

Jake shook his head. "No. He hasn't moved, and I've been here a couple of hours." He stood and reached for the little plastic pitcher that was in every single hospital Dean had ever visited. "How are you feeling?" He poured water into a cup and brought it back to Dean.

"Thanks," Dean said before taking a sip. The chilled water felt amazing on his aching throat. "Like I look," he admitted finally. "Michael said he thought I might have mono," he added with disgust.

"Yeah," Jake said. Evidently Michael was not so much about patient privacy when it came to the Winchesters and his family. "That kinda grosses me out, dude," he said. "You're way too old to be making out with teen-aged girls."

Annoyed and wondering how many times he was going to have to hear that particular dig, Dean chucked his now empty cup at the punk in front of him. The throw didn't have much force behind it, but Dean felt a glimmer of satisfaction when Jake wasn't fast enough to dodge the cup or catch it. The cup bounced off Jake's head, making a surprisingly graceful arc as it fell to the floor.

"Ow," Jake complained. He rubbed his forehead and bent over to retrieve the cup.

Turning his attention to other things – namely Sam – Dean hauled himself to his feet. The mask he'd been supposed to be wearing had slipped off his face while he slept, and he pulled it up awkwardly over his mouth as he made his way toward the bed. He came up along the side where Jake had been sitting and glanced at the book Jake had placed on the bed next to the leg of Sam's that wasn't broken.

"Civil Procedure?" he looked at Jake.

The kid shrugged. "Law school."

"Huh."

Dean didn't touch Sam, careful because of the possibility of infection, just looked him over. The swelling of Sam's face had gone down some, though it was still puffy, bruises and scrapes continuing to make him look not quite like himself. The skin under the obvious injuries was gray and his lips were pale, chapped and painful looking.

"You didn't talk to any doctors while I was out?" he asked Jake.

Jake shook his head. "They won't talk to me, man. They know I'm not related. And Michael hasn't been by while I've been here." He hesitated. "Someone did come by asking about insurance, though."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, okay."

Jake didn't pursue it, but Dean read the uncertainty and curiosity on his face. Dean shrugged. "We got something set up a little while ago just in case… well, just in case something like this happened. Where it was so bad we couldn't skip out."

Jake nodded, relieved. "Have you got the information on you? I can go find the woman who came by about it."

Dean nodded, shakily reaching for the wallet in his back pocket before remembering he didn't actually have the card on him. "It's back at the motel," he sighed. They tended to keep that information separate from the rest of their identification.

"Where are you staying? I can go get it," Jake offered. "Or maybe I could take you back to your room, and you could, you know, shower or something."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Are you implying I stink?" Dean didn't have any doubts about that himself.

"No implication necessary. You absolutely stink."

With a vague smile at the comment, Dean thought about it. He hadn't showered or shaved in days. Getting cleaned up would actually be something of a relief. Maybe a shower would clear his head. Or at least make him feel less slimy. But he wanted to talk to the doctor, see what….

"Hey. You're awake." Michael swung into the room, a young woman in a business suit following.

Jake tipped his head at the woman. "Insurance," he said to Dean.

"Oh, yeah, right." Dean shuffled carefully around the bed. "I actually don't have our insurance card with me. We were just talking about that. I need to …."

The woman's eyes had narrowed somewhat when she'd seen Dean, taking in the mask over the bottom half of his face and the rest of his rumpled appearance. "I hate to keep coming by," she said, falsely apologetic and clearly annoyed. "We need to have that information as soon as possible, so we can make sure billing is taken care of. I'm on my way out right now, and I was hoping…"

"We understand." Jake stepped up, sliding in between Dean and the administrator. "I'm going to go get that as soon as we find out how Sam is doing. If you'll give me your office number, I'll be glad to drop it by. If you're headed home, should I slip it under your door? Or can I get it to you first thing in the morning?"

"I guess tomorrow morning would be fine," conceded the woman somewhat grudgingly, pulling a card out of her pocket. "I do need the information soon because…." 

"Of course," Jake cut her off smoothly, angling her out the door. "What time do you get here in the morning? I'll…"

Dean didn't hear the end of the conversation as Jake left the room, looking like he was actually escorting the woman all the way out of the ICU.

"He's good," Dean commented to Michael.

Michael shook his head. "You have no idea. Somewhere along the line he's developed quite the ability to get people to do what he wants them to do without their even realizing it."

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. _Yeah. Somewhere along the line…._ "That's a handy skill for a lawyer."

Michael just smiled, moving toward Sam's bed. He glanced at the white board on the wall that indicated when vitals had last been taken and what medications had been administered when. He then looked at what seemed to be a chart in his hand.

"How's he doing?" Dean asked.

"About how we'd expect. The pressure on his brain is at good levels, and the antibiotics seems to be doing their job at preventing an infection in his leg, though we'll keep an eye on that."

Dean moved up alongside Michael. "Should he be awake by now?" He couldn't stop the automatic reach toward his brother, though he managed to keep himself from touching, tugged the light blanket smooth over Sam instead.

"Not necessarily," Michael said. "Look, it's not unusual for this level of brain injury to result in several days of unconsciousness. I don't think there's any reason to worry about that quite yet, OK?"

Dean nodded. He was somewhat reassured.

"So." Michael flipped the chart closed. "Let's talk about you."

"Did you tell him?"

Dean startled somewhat. Jake had snuck up behind Dean without him realizing it.

"Not yet." Michael looked at Dean. "You do have mono."

Dean groaned.

"Though Sam doesn't."

Well, that was good news.

"You're also coming to stay with us," Jake added. He reached across the bed to snag his book, shoving it into a backpack Dean hadn't noticed before.

Dean turned to Jake and opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but sure that was not going to happen. "I don't …."

"Shut up," said Jake, cutting him off and hitching his backpack onto his shoulders. "We have an extra bedroom; we're close to the hospital; and it's stupid for you to pay for a motel room when you're going to be up here most of the time anyway." He picked up Dean's jacket and started rummaging through the pockets. He'd pulled out the car keys before Dean was able to register what the kid was doing. "Do you want to go with me to the motel to get your stuff or should I just get the insurance card and pack y'all up myself?" Jake looked at Michael. "He shouldn't stay here, should he? Sam's not liable to wake up overnight, is he? And if he does you'll be here anyway. So yeah. Never mind." He thrust the coat into Dean's hands. "Come on."

Things were moving too fast for Dean's over-tired brain to process, and he accepted the jacket reflexively, not protesting immediately when Jake actually took it back and started to help him into it.

Though he did jerk clumsily away when he realized what was happening. "I'm not a kid, dude," he said sulkily.

"In case you missed it, Dean," Michael said, "Jake has developed alarming mothering tendencies since you last saw him."

"You shut up, too," Jake said, one hand on Dean's elbow, steering him toward the door. "Call us if anything changes on Sam, OK?"

"Will do." Michael settled into the chair next to Sam's bed, pulling out a stack of paperwork before propping his feet up and getting to work.

Dean found himself out of the room and down the hall before he'd really grasped what had happened.

"I thought we weren't allowed to say 'shut up,'" he offered, about two steps behind the conversation, as he was tugged along after Jake, dragging his feet somewhat, limited in his ability to register his reluctance.

Jake hummed a vague acknowledgement that Dean had spoken, tightening his grip on Dean's arm. "Keep moving."

xxxx

It was amazing what a shower and twelve hours sleeping in a bed did for a person. Dean was still moving slowly and aching, but he didn't feel like road-kill anymore. At least for the moment. Michael had warned him that the only thing to do for mono was treat the symptoms and let the virus run its course. The symptoms would likely come and go to one degree or another based on how much rest he got. Dean figured he'd better take advantage of the little bit of energy he had and planned to grab a bowl of cereal – if he could stomach it – before heading back to the hospital.

Showered (again) and dressed, Dean sat at the somewhat battered kitchen table in the house Michael and Jake's shared. The table looked familiar, and he finally realized that it had been in the kitchen in the old apartment attached to the diner where he and Sam had first met Jo and her family. It was oddly comforting to Dean that the table was still around.

"You don't want coffee?" Jake was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved white t-shirt with "Texas Law" emblazoned across it. He slung his backpack into one of the chairs and looked at the fancy, empty coffee maker.

"I couldn't figure out how to make the damn thing give me any," Dean said, disgruntled. He'd tried to get the coffee started, but been defeated when it required more than just putting grounds in the filter and filling the water tank. Plus the showering and walking to the kitchen from the bedroom had worn him out.

Jake rolled his eyes and got the thing working before turning back to Dean. "Are you eating?"

"I was going to get some cereal," he said. After he'd rested for a while from the strenuous activity of taking a shower, putting his clothes on, and staring at the uncooperative coffee maker.

"Do you want eggs?" Jake asked. He'd opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton.

Dean thought about it. The idea didn't make him feel nauseous. He still accepted somewhat uneasily. "I guess."

"If you're not up for eating them when they're done, I'll eat 'em," Jake said, understanding the hesitation, cracking eggs into a bowl.

"OK." Dean put his head down on the table. _Damn_. That surge of energy hadn't lasted very long.

"Here."

Dean blinked and raised his head as Jake put a plate in front of him and held out a fork. Dean took the fork, studying the eggs, deciding whether he was going to eat or not.

"You should eat those." Michael now. He sat in the chair across from Dean. "I know it may not seem all that appetizing, but you need the food."

"Coffee." Jake reached out to give Dean a mug, but was intercepted by Michael, who extended an arm over the table to take the coffee before Dean could get a hand on it.

"Yeah. No." Michael took a sip out of the mug, ignoring Dean's grunt of protest. "You need to avoid coffee and alcohol," he added. He turned to his brother. "Me?" he asked.

"Fine." Jake dropped the second plate of eggs in front of Michael before heading back to the fridge.

"Thanks, Jakey."

Dean got lost for a moment staring morosely at Michael drinking his coffee.

"Eat, Dean." Michael jiggled the plate gently, and, grumbling, Dean complied.

When Jake finally joined them, the three men ate in companionable silence. Dean munched vaguely on the toast Jake had dropped on his plate at some point during the meal and drank the glass of water Michael had pressed on him with, "You need to stay hydrated."

By the time all three of them were finished, Dean just wanted to get back in bed again. The thought of getting out of the chair and driving himself to the hospital left him feeling exhausted. He sighed. But it had to be done. Pushing out of his seat, Dean carried his dishes to the sink.

"Where are my keys?" he asked Jake, who had driven him to the motel and back to the house the night before.

"In my pocket," said Jake.

Dean held out his hand.

"I don't think so." Michael this time, getting up from the table and taking his and Jake's plates to the counter.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Michael and I have decided that you shouldn't be driving," Jake said.

They were tag-teaming him. Jake stood, grabbing his backpack and shrugging it over his shoulders.

"What?" Dean said again.

"We'll take you back and forth for now," Michael said in what Dean was sure the kid considered to be a reasonable tone of voice.

"No."

"Yes."

Dean glared at both of them, hands curling into fists.

"You wanna fight me for the keys?" Jake asked, sounding strangely delighted. He'd dropped his backpack on the floor and was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, raising his fists – one still holding the keys – as he ducked and weaved, a smirk on his face, thinking Dean was too weak to engage in such a match.

Dean stared for a long moment, then sagged his shoulders. Like he was giving in. Jake dropped the play and moved closer, into Dean's space, thinking he'd won. The sucker actually put a consoling hand on Dean's shoulder.

And Dean swept his leg into Jake's, knocking the kid on his butt. Before Jake could recover, Dean had bent down and jerked the keys from Jake's lax fingers, holding his prize aloft in his victory. Then he staggered backward, dizzied by the sudden movement and change in location of his aching head. He felt the keys plucked out his hand as Michael caught him before he fell.

"Nice try, man," Michael said, easing Dean into a lean against the wall before turning to pull Jake to his feet.

Dean slid the rest of the way to the ground, holding his pounding head in his hands. It was more than a little tempting to just let himself topple slowly to the side so he wouldn't have to struggle even to stay upright.

"Let us do this, okay?" Michael handed the keys to Jake and crouched down in front of Dean. "The less energy you expend on getting to and from the hospital – and fighting us – the better you'll be able to use the little energy you do have when you see Sam."

It sounded so reasonable when it was said like that. Dean nodded his capitulation gingerly, head still resting in his hands.

"Good."

There was the sound of movement around the room and when Dean finally raised his head, Jake was standing in front of him, backpack on again. He reached down a hand, and Dean grasped it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

"Thanks."

Michael handed him his coat. "Call me if you need to come home, OK? Jake's going to bring the truck back here after he's dropped you and the insurance card off. If I don't hear from you, I'll see you when I'm on shift later today."

"Yeah. OK," Dean agreed and followed Jake out to the truck.

It was a gorgeous day, the sky a bright blue and the air pleasantly cool. Jake cranked down the windows on both sides of the cab saying that after the heat they'd endured through the summer and early fall, he didn't mind being a little cold. Dean hadn't minded it either, the breeze through the windows feeling nice on his warm face. He leaned his head back against the headrest, letting his eyes ease shut and mind drift, Jake mostly quiet beside him, occasionally singing along softly with whatever was on the radio.

Jake pulled up to the entrance of the hospital to let Dean out before using Michael's parking pass to get into the garage.

"I'm not coming up to the room," Jake said. "I've got class, so I'm headed out after I drop this off." He waved the insurance card at Dean.

"I could…," Dean started.

"Nope," Jake said. "Get out."

Dean climbed down from the truck. "Thanks," he said, speaking through the window after he'd shut the door. "Again."

"Have I told you to shut up recently?" Jake asked with mock-seriousness. He waved. "See you later."

Dean stood for a minute, watching Jake drive away. It had been a long, long time since he and Sam had had any kind of back up. And as usual Dean was torn between being incredibly thankful for the support and being equally embarrassed that they required any help at all.

Dean made his way up to the fifth floor of the hospital, nodding his thanks at the nurse who buzzed him in. Now that he had a definitive diagnosis of mono, the hospital staff was willing to let him in without a hazmat suit. Mono was passed via saliva and since Dean didn't plan on sharing utensils with or frenching his brother or anyone else in the unit, he'd been passed.

Dean greeted Sam as he entered and the morning nurse gave Dean the update – no change really, though Sam did seem to be getting closer to the surface of his light coma, which was encouraging.

The reclining chair was wedged between Sam's bed and the window, angled toward the foot of the bed and the television mounted on the wall. Dean eased himself into it before aiming the remote at TV. He flipped through the available channels and clicked it off. Morning television didn't ever not suck.

Dean sighed and leaned back in the chair. He still hadn't made a definite decision about calling Jo and Luke and neither Michael nor Jake had pressed him on it this morning. Truthfully, Dean wasn't sure why he hadn't already just said "no" about the call.

Dean was familiar and agreed with all the reasons that supported not bothering Jo and Luke. Winchesters had never been good at asking for or accepting help. When he and Sam had been growing up, Dad had only ever relied on Bobby and that reliance had been sporadic, times when Dad had been truly desperate. After Dad's death, Dean and Sam had relied on Bobby to a degree that Dean hadn't been comfortable with at times; but they'd gotten used to it until, by the time Bobby had been killed, it hadn't seemed at all strange to think of Bobby as a father of sorts. And the ache of that loss still felt like a blow at times. Common sense and history said not to call, not to get sucked back into relationships where there was the danger of hurting and being hurt.

And yet. Dean couldn't seem to bring himself to just pull the trigger and tell Michael that he didn't want Jo and Luke called.

It had been just him and Sam for so long now. When God had returned and put heaven (and hell) back in order, Cas had gone home. The angel still popped in occasionally, but his focus was elsewhere, and Dean got that.

So Dean and Sam, just the two of them, on their own, in the aftermath, had gone back to basics – saving people, hunting things. They still used the Lair of Letters as a home base, but they spent most of their time on the road, looking into the unexplained, whether it was an urban legend or the occasional demon that needed its ass sent back to hell.

If Dean sometimes felt restless or discontented, wondering if this would be what they did until they died, Dean figured most people felt that way about their lives at one point or another. And if Sam sometimes seemed distant or withdrawn, unwilling to engage with Dean outside of the demands of the job for days at a time, Dean figured that was probably normal, too. They lived in each other's back pockets. Of course there were times when they needed to be alone. And if Sam felt that need more often than Dean did, well, so be it. What they had worked, and given what they'd been through, Dean thought that just having each other should probably be enough.

But the thing was, in just the last 24 hours, Dean knew he was already being sucked back in, actually already _had _been sucked back in—back into relationship, back into caring and being cared for. Plus, there was something about not being on your own in the middle of a crisis. He might have chafed against being bossed around by the McCrae boys, but there was comforting about it, as well. There was no getting around that.

Almost of its own volition, Dean's hand reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Hesitantly, he found the number he wanted and stared at it for a long time before hitting "call." His stomach churned as he waited, tempted to hang up and not….

"Hello?"

It took him a second to speak. He cleared his throat.

"Hey, Jo," he faltered. "It's Dean."

xxxx


	5. Chapter 4

_Contact_, Ch. 4

xxxx

Jo tossed some long-sleeved t-shirts into her bag before moving to the dresser to start sorting through clothes for Luke. The shirts landed on top of the cat that was investigating her opened luggage suspiciously. He meowed disapprovingly at her.

"Sorry, Pip," she said with a smile, attention now on the cat. The orange tabby's head poked out from under the fabric and narrowed his eyes at her. She leaned over to smooth a hand over his ears, and he stretched up into the caress. His brother stepped carefully into the bag and began to make biscuits in her jeans, purring deeply. Jo scooped both cats out the duffle and dropped them on the floor next to D-dog who was watching both the cats and the packing unhappily. The old dog had adjusted to the feline additions to the family with the equanimity the Sweeds had anticipated from him, but he certainly didn't approve of the greater freedom they enjoyed on the furniture and beds. Though given how much time the dog spent on Tommy's bed, Jo wasn't sure he had much cause for complaint.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Jo said when D-dog turned mournful eyes on her. Ignoring the facts that both cats had just jumped back onto the bed, she bent down to give him a consoling pat. He knew what it meant when the suitcases came out. "You know you love it when Marge comes to feed you." He generally gained a couple of pounds when they were out of town. This would be the first time they'd left the cats for longer than a couple of nights.

Jo turned back to Luke's drawers, opening one to see what was clean. First one cat and then the other made the jump from the bed to the dresser drawer. With a sigh of exasperation, she picked them both up and dropped them back on the floor. Pippen crouched down, intent to jump back into the drawer clear from the way his rear end shimmied from side to side. Jo used her foot to shift him away and break his focus. He wandered off like that had always been his plan

"Mom!" Tommy's shout had Jo moving to the door of the bedroom. D-dog followed her, then trotted off to Tommy. The cats trailed after the dog for a couple of steps before chasing each other through his legs and into the boys' room.

"What?"

"How long will we be there?" Tommy, tall and ridiculously skinny in the wake of his latest growth spurt, stood in the hallway, jeans just a hair too short, holding a stack of shirts. Merry had made the jump from the floor to Tommy's shoulder and was balanced there precariously. The boy lifted a hand to run over the cat's back.

Jo had pulled Tommy out of school at noon due to a "family emergency" and was hoping they could get on the road in the next hour or so. Luke was getting things in order at the sheriff's office and should be home within the half-hour.

"You'll have to be back for school on Wednesday for your English test, so…" she counted mentally, "five days? You'll be home Tuesday night." At this point she wasn't sure whether she'd still be needed in Austin, but Luke would have to be back himself so he could bring Tommy home.

"What English test?" Tommy sounded affronted. "I just turned in that report on…" 

"The one you're making up because you _forgot_ about the test on Pride and Prejudice. The one Mrs. Grayson is graciously allowing you to take again," she reminded him more sharply than she'd intended.

"Oh," he said. "Right."

"Yeah. 'Oh,'" she muttered to herself as she moved back into her room. "And don't forget to pack that book," she called as she approached the dresser again.

"Do we still have that movie you used to make us watch all the time?" Tommy shouted from his room. "Maybe I could just watch it in the car on the way," he suggested. "That way I wouldn't have to…."

"Pack the book!" Jo yelled, trying to keep her temper.

"But…"

"Pack the book." Luke's voice echoed down the hall.

"But I thought that movie was supposed to…."

Luke entered their room, and Jo grabbed two fistfuls of hair, pulling them away from her head while she opened her mouth in a silent scream.

"Tommy!" Luke barked. "What did _both_ of us _just_ say?"

"Fine!"

The sound of large feet stomping around the boys' room drifted down the hall. And Jo thought she heard the flutter of book pages rustling as she imagined her well-used copy of Pride and Prejudice being hurled into Tommy's backpack. She gritted her teeth against another outburst of frustration with her youngest as the cats skittered back into their room, disapproving of the commotion Tommy was making. They dashed over the bed before zooming to the top of the dresser, skidding across it, knocking over a couple of framed photos, tumbling over the side, landing on top of each other and then scampering under the bed.

"Maybe I can watch the movie?" Jo asked plaintively. "I'll sit in the back with headphones on and you can deal with him for the drive?"

"Not gonna happen," Luke said, righting the frames. "I'm not suffering alone." He nudged her gently out of his way, pulling clothes out of his drawers and lobbing them at his own bag.

Tommy had always been such a sweet, agreeable child and that was certainly still true – sometimes – of his teenaged self. But he was also, both Jo and Luke had realized recently, used to being protected and hand-held through his very sheltered (kidnapping by a demon-possessed neighbor several years before aside) life. It came, Jo thought, from being the baby and being so much younger than his older brothers. She'd done significantly more for Tommy than she ever had for Michael or Jake, who had had to step up and help when she'd found herself a single mother of three boys after their parents had died. When Luke had joined the family that burden had lifted some from the older boys, but by that time Jo's expectations for them were pretty set. And with two parents and two older brothers running interference for him, Tommy had been, well, spoiled. It hurt Jo in her practical, no-nonsense heart to admit this, but there it was.

With this being Tommy's senior year and college looming on the horizon, Jo and Luke were making a concerted effort to let Tommy be responsible for his own schedule and school work. It was not going well.

"I don't understand why you won't just remind me," Tommy had complained after failing his English test earlier in the week because he'd found himself writing essays about a book he hadn't read. How that was possible given the fact that all his friends were in the same class and prepared, Jo couldn't comprehend. She knew he talked to people – good Lord, did she know he talked to people – but somehow, incomprehensively, school work hadn't come up in the hundreds of texts he exchanged with his classmates each day.

"Because," Luke had said with strained patience, again, "you have to learn how to keep track of these things on your own, kiddo. Mom and I aren't going to be around to ride you about studying when you go away to school next year."

"If I live with Jake, _he_ will," Tommy had said with a sly smile at Jo.

"If you can get into UT with your grades slipping because you're forgetting tests," Jo had responded sharply.

Tommy had pouted. "What do I do?"

"You need to go talk to Mrs. Grayson and see what she says," Jo had suggested without much hope. Cecilia Grayson was one of the toughest teachers at the high school – both of the older boys had had her and hated/loved her. "If she won't let you make it up, you're just going to have to accept the consequences."

Jo had had to restrain herself from making the call to see if Cecilia would relent just this once. Tommy needed to be the one to deal with the ramifications of his carelessness. It just sucked that Jo was going to have to suffer along with him.

The next afternoon, when Tommy had careened into the diner, he'd crowed, "Mrs. Grayson said I could make up the test next week!"

Because of course she had. For all the boy's flakiness, Tommy could charm the socks off anyone he came into contact with. Though, if it had ever come down to it, Jo had to admit, the other two boys could probably have managed the same feat themselves. But Michael would never have forgotten the test in the first place, and Jake would have stubbornly refused to ask for leniency if he had. Truthfully it was Tommy's combination of carelessness and charm that was beginning to concern Jo.

But she'd just rolled her eyes at his gloating.

And Tommy had promptly forgotten. Which was why she was – again – hounding him about his school work.

When he finally slunk into their room with his backpack slung over his shoulder, he leaned against the doorjamb and said, "I'm ready."

Jo forced herself to smile as she turned to him; she was always too willing to hold on to grudges when she had an argument with one of the boys.

"Good." She cocked her head to one side. "Maybe we should take the movie with us," she allowed. "We could force Dean and Sam to watch it. After you've read the book."

Tommy made a face at the condition attached, but then he grinned. "Like we did with Anne of Green Gables."

Jo waggled her eyebrows at him.

"I'll go get it!" he said excitedly and turned to lope off.

"Put your backpack in the car," Luke called after him. "And grab that HEB bag!"

"OK!"

Thundering down the stairs.

"How sick is Dean?" Luke asked with a slight grin. "The poor kid had almost died the time we forced Anne of Green Gables on him."

Jo sighed. "Well, Jake says it's mono, so. Dean sounded horrible on the phone, but of course, wouldn't actually answer me when I asked about how _he_ was doing."

She'd literally dropped her phone when she'd heard, "It's Dean." She'd scrambled desperately for the phone, accidentally kicking it across the floor before she'd been able to get her hands on it and put it to her ear.

"Dean?" she'd known she'd sounded breathless. And she had been.

"Hi. Yeah." He'd sounded a little short of breath himself. "How are you doing? It's been a while, I know. I'm sorry about that."

"That's OK, that's OK," she'd hurried to reassure him. "How are you? Are you OK? We've missed you!" The words had tumbled out of her mouth in a rush like she was afraid she might not get a chance to say them to him again.

There was a moment of silence where Jo was terrified she'd said too much and scared him off. "Dea-"

"So. Guess who we ran into yesterday?"

Jo had blinked at the non sequitor. Evidently Dean wasn't going to respond to her questions. "Um. I don't know?" she'd offered.

"Michael. And Jake."

"Are you in Austin?" Jo asked, delighted.

"Yeah. We're on a job."

"Oh!" So they were going to have this conversation like it hadn't been years since they'd last heard from the Winchesters. OK, she'd thought. _I can do that._ "Where did you see them?"

"Funny thing." He'd cleared his throat, and Jo had realized, finally recovering from the shock at hearing his voice, that he'd sounded terrible. "Uh. It was at the hospital. When did Michael become a doctor?"

And yeah. She hadn't been willing to ignore that one. "At the hospital?" Why hadn't she heard this from Michael? "Are you OK?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." _Liar_. "Sam had a, uh, an accident."

"An accident? What kind of accident?" Surely Michael would have called if it had been bad.

"A house kind of fell on him."

"A house?" Jo hadn't been able to keep the horror out of her voice. "Dean, what is going on? Do you need us? We can be there in a few hours."

There'd had been an odd strangled sound – a choked, disbelieving laugh – on the other end of the phone, and Jo had felt her throat close up in response.

There'd been a long stretch of silence.

"Why would you do that?" Dean's voice had been vague, hoarse and quiet, exhaustion seeping through. "We haven't…." He'd trailed off, hadn't finished the thought.

Jo had forced herself to take a few deep breaths and think about what to say. She'd known that for the question to even have been asked, for it to have slipped past Dean's defenses, Dean would have had to be at the utter end of himself – beyond that point actually.

Finally, she'd said, "Dean, would you come to us if you knew we needed you? No matter how long it had been?" She'd asked the questions as gently as she could, and she'd accepted the shaken breath he'd taken as his answer. "We feel the same way about you and Sam. Where else would we be?"

He hadn't responded directly – of course – but had seemed willing to accept that they would be on their way. The rest of the conversation had been short and had ended with Jo saying she'd see him soon.

She hadn't tried to get any more information out of him. She'd known she wouldn't be successful.

And she had other sources.

Jo had turned on the computer, opening her Gmail. There had been a little green dot next to Jake's name, meaning he was available for chat. Though he shouldn't have been. He should be in class. And paying attention. But for once Jo hadn't been going to comment on the delusion her children had that they could "multi-task."

"Why didn't you tell me about Dean and Sam?" she had typed in the little box in the lower right-hand corner of the browser window.

Jake hadn't responded immediately, then, "tell you what about them"

"I just talked to Dean, you wretched child."

"cant class"

"That isn't going to save you this time, buddy. How bad is it?"

"it's not good."

Jo had waited for more, but it hadn't come.

"What does that mean?"

Nothing.

"Jake."

Nothing.

"Jake."

"Jake."

"Jakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejake…"

_Jake is typing…_

"You better be, young man," Jo had muttered to herself.

"omgosh settle down woman i'm in class and got called on. a house fell on sam and he's got a skull fracture as well as a compound fracture of his thigh. *emoticon of a little yellow head puking* plus dean's got mono."

It had taken Jo a minute to catch her breath.

"How bad is the skull fracture? Do we know yet?"

"no. michael says we won't really know until sam wakes up."

"How is Dean doing?"

"wait"

Jo had, tapping her foot impatiently.

"sorry. dean is falling asleep whenever he sits down and trying to pretend that he's fine so the usual."

"We're coming."

"i figured. dean's in the guest room. i'll bunk with mikey and you can have my room. tommy?"

"Yes."

"couch"

"I'm going to get packed. Love you. See you soon."

"text when you're on the road drive safe"

That had been just a few hours ago, and it was hard for Jo to really grasp that by this evening she would be seeing the Winchesters again. However Dean was doing, whatever shape Sam might be in, she'd be able to see for herself shortly. She sniffed and swiped a finger under one eye. Stupid tears.

"Here," said Luke. He handed her Merry, who was purring throatily, and pushed her gently out of the room. "Indulge in some cat therapy while I finish getting us packed."

"Okay," Jo sniffled, rubbing her face in the cat's fur, and wandered downstairs.

She put the cat down when she got to the kitchen, feeling much better in the wake of carrying an armful of happy cat around the house for a little while. She'd stuck her head into the room that had always been the Winchesters' to see what needed to be done to make it habitable again in case Dean and Sam needed a longer landing place than Michael and Jake could provide. It wasn't too bad in there; the room had served its secondary purpose well over the years by housing numerous friends the older boys had brought home with them from school or, during the time Jake had worked, the office. Jo had always felt a little bittersweet dusting the furniture and washing sheets for friends that were not the Winchesters, but she'd also always been glad to have the space when they needed it.

Jo sat at the kitchen table after grabbing a notepad and a pencil from one of the drawers and got to work on some lists. Tommy joined her a couple of minutes later, adding items to the grocery list and groaning at the list she was making of things that needed to be done before Dean and Sam got to the house. If they did.

"Why can't we just stack the boxes in a corner?" he asked when he saw one of the tasks was moving all the boxes out of the room in to the shed. "Sam and Dean aren't going to mind if we've got some stuff stored in there."

Jo didn't bother to answer him, adding, "Have Tommy organize all the boxes by contents before he moves them to the shed" then "Have Tommy paint the room" to the list.

Tommy just snorted. "Fine," he agreed with a laugh, reaching for her hand to try to make her scratch out the last items. Jo smiled as she erased. "I knew you'd see in my way," she said smugly.

Luke dropped bags on the floor next to the table, glancing at the lists Jo was working on. "You know the boys are going to have a lot of that stuff already on hand," he said.

"I know. I just wanted to get it down while I was thinking of what I was going to need. I'll adjust when we get there." Jo made one last note to herself before dropping both the pad and the pencil into her purse. "Are we ready?" she asked.

"Let's go," said Luke.

xxxx

"So." Jake dropped his backpack with a solid thunk on the floor next to one of the chairs that had been dragged into Sam's room. Dean startled upright. "I guess you decided we could tell Jo and Luke about Sam," Jake said in a disgruntled voice. "I got bawled out via g-chat during class this morning for not letting Mom know."

Dean sat up more straightly and ran a heavy hand over his face. "Yeah. Sorry, man. I just figured I should probably be the one to call." He gave Jake a rueful smile. "Didn't think about the consequences for you and Michael on that, I guess."

"Well," Jake said grudgingly. "You're sick and you haven't been around in a while to remember what she can be like," he went on. "So…." Jake wandered over to Sam's bed to check on him.

Dean felt an internal wince at Jake's casual mention of their not being around. He hadn't really addressed that with Jake, though he and Michael had touched on it briefly initially.

"Hey, Jake," Dean started. Jake turned, face nothing more than curious. "About our not being around. I…"

Jake's face shuttered immediately, and he turned back to Sam. "Don't worry about it," he said dismissively.

All Dean wanted to do was follow Jake's instruction and not worry about it. But he knew from bitter experience that too often dealing with an issue by ignoring it was a recipe for disaster. As much as he hated to admit it.

"Yeah, the thing is, I think I do need worry about it. I _have _worried about it. Sam has, too."

Jake's head came around slowly, listening.

"Things were… bad—really bad—for a long time after we last saw you." Dean cleared his throat, trying to decide how much to say. "We, uh, both of us, Sam and me, we went places in the dark we never…." Dean's eyes went to Sam in the bed, settled there. "We couldn't…we couldn't bring that to you. We couldn't drag you guys down into the… the evil we were wrapped up in. And then when things finally did get better, it had been so long, so much had happened to us and we weren't the same… We just…. We couldn't…." Dean closed his eyes, huffing out a weak laugh. Well, that had been…disjointed. He sighed, opening his eyes to take in the kid he was trying to apologize to. "I'm sorry. We.…"

But Jake was shaking his head, expression regretful in the early afternoon light. "Don't, Dean. Really."

Jake hesitated, and Dean wasn't sure what was coming next.

Jake took a slow step forward, one hand resting lightly on the foot of Sam's bed. "You don't need to apologize. In fact, I'm sorry," he said, with a rueful smile. "I, uh, may have taken it a little personally when we didn't hear from y'all. But." He shook his head again. "I know it took a lot to keep you away." His brow wrinkled slightly as he paused. "And I guess I'm sorry y'all had to go through all that on your own."

Dean opened his mouth to say… something…

Sam made an unhappy sound and his uncasted leg shifted restlessly.

Dean jumped – to the extent he could – from the chair and staggered to the bed. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes were fluttering, his forehead crinkling in confusion or pain as his head moved uneasily on the pillow.

"Ungh," mumbled Sam.

Dean's eyes went to Jake's, and Jake moved toward the door, calling for help.

"Hey, man." Dean put a hand lightly on Sam's chest, not trying to hold him down, but wanting to reassure. "You're in the hospital, Sam, okay? You're going to be alright."

One of the nurses hurried into the room. She skirted Dean and the bed, approaching Sam on the opposite side. "Hey, honey," she said to Sam and his face turned toward her. "That's good." She looked at Dean in surprise. "He's responding to the different voices around him. That's really good."

Dean swallowed heavily, nodding in relief. "Okay."

Sam's head turned back toward Dean.

"Now he may not wake completely right now," she cautioned, "but he's definitely close." The nurse checked a couple of the monitors and adjusted something on the IV drip. "I'll let Dr. Arnold know he's coming around." She gave Jake a smile. "I assume you'll let your brother know."

There was a sharp movement from the bed and everyone's attention refocused on Sam. Whose eyes flickered and opened.

"We've got a determined one," said the nurse.

"You have no idea," said Dean with a grin. "Hey, Sammy."

Sam blinked heavily at his brother and his eyes stuttered to Jake when he moved up beside Dean.

"Hey, Sammy," Jake said.

Sam's expression didn't register any recognition of the other man. He stared groggily for a long second before looking back at Dean. And stared some more.

"Sam?" It was making Dean uneasy, this lack of talking or even attempting to talk by his usually hyper-verbal brother. They'd both had head injuries in the past, but that had never stopped Sam from trying to communicate with him before. He looked at the nurse, who had taken Sam's wrist in her hand and was, evidently, checking his pulse.

She smiled at him in what Dean was sure was meant to be a reassuring way. "He may not be completely aware, yet, Dean. He suffered a massive trauma to his brain. You need to give him some time, OK?" She straightened the bed clothes slightly. "I'm going to go call Dr. Arnold. You might just talk to him for a while, sugar," she added as she left the room.

Jake's face was concerned, but he gave Dean a quick smile. "I'm going to go let Michael know. I'll leave you alone. So you can have whatever heart-to-heart chat with Sam that you've been meaning to have." He pulled the chair Dean had been sitting in closer to the bed, then clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder as Dean sat down. "This is good, Dean," Jake said softly and then left the brothers alone.

In the bed, Sam continued to watch Dean, eyelids at half-mast, face oddly blank, but still intent on his brother.

Dean drew in a shaky breath, then gave an equally unsteady smile to his brother. "So. Let's talk about you wandering into abandoned buildings without back up…."

xxxx


	6. Chapter 5

_Contact__, ch. 5_

_For Kathy. A slightly belated merry Christmas, friend. :)_

xxxx

Dean talked to Sam until his brother's eyes closed completely. Sam's expression had never changed, but he'd remained fixated on Dean, so Dean was hopeful there was something behind the disturbing blankness.

With a sigh, Dean leaned back in his chair, letting his head rest on the not-particularly-comfortable edge of the rear cushion. He'd forced himself to stay upright and alert while he'd talked to his brother, and while it hadn't taken Sam long to fall back asleep, the exertion had worn Dean out. Plus the talking hadn't made his throat feel any better. His own eyes slid shut.

"Hey, man." A hand on his shoulder woke Dean from the doze he'd fallen into.

Michael patted him gently, and Dean saw that Dr. Arnold was standing by Sam's bed. Jake was by the door, obviously trying to stay out of the way in the small room. But he held out a Coke, and Dean heaved himself out of his chair to reach out and take it gratefully.

Dr. Arnold gave him a sympathetic glance before turning his attention back to Sam. "I hear this one's showing some signs of waking up."

Dean twisted the top off the Coke and took a careful sip. The cold soda felt great on his throat, but the carbonation was tricky if he drank too quickly. He swallowed and answered the doctor. "Yeah. He actually had his eyes open for a little while."

"Did he speak?" The older doctor pulled a small penlight out of his pocket.

"No. Just watched me."

"Did he seem to recognize you?" The doctor lifted one of Sam's eyelids and flicked the light into and away from the eye. Sam didn't stir.

"I think so?" Dean said it like it was a question, but realized it really wasn't. "I mean, yeah. I'm pretty sure he did."

"Did it seem like he wanted to speak?"

"No. He didn't. Which was weird. He just stared at me."

"But you still felt like he knew you," the doctor confirmed, checking reflexes with quick assurance.

"Yeah."

The doctor nodded, frowning thoughtfully at Sam. "Let's see if we can rouse him." He stepped back slightly from the bed. "You try, Dean. Let's see if he'll respond to you. My manhandling him just now didn't seem to have much effect."

Dean stepped forward, glancing somewhat self-consciously at the doctor and Michael. He put his Coke to the side and laid a hand on Sam's arm, shaking it. "Hey, Sammy. Time to wake up."

There was no response, so Dean jiggled Sam's elbow a little more forcefully. "Dude. Wake up." He looked at the doctor. "I'd usually rub a knuckle over his sternum, but with his ribs…." He and Sam probably had more experience trying to rouse each other out of unconsciousness than most people.

Dr. Arnold nodded. "Try being a little louder."

"Come on, Sammy. Get up." He pitched his voice louder and put a degree of urgency into his tone that he hoped would translate in Sam's unconscious mind to Dean's being in danger. He hated to do that, but they both usually responded more quickly if they thought – even subconsciously – that the other was in trouble.

Sam stirred.

"Good," said Dr. Arnold encouragingly.

"Wake up, Sam." This time Dean made it an order. "Open your eyes."

Sam's head turned to his brother, and his eyes struggled open. He peered at Dean, and Dean couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Hey."

Sam blinked heavily.

"Hi, Sam. I'm Dr. Arnold."

Sam's eyes flicked to the doctor, then back to Dean.

The doctor took Sam's hand. "Sam," he said trying to recapture his attention. "Can you squeeze my hand?"

But Sam's attention didn't waver from Dean, and the doctor shook his head. "Come on, Sam. Squeeze my hand, if you can."

Frowning, the doctor let go of Sam's hand and moved to the end of the bed near Sam's unbroken leg. He moved the covers to the side and put a hand under the arch of Sam's foot. "Push down, Sam." No response. "Sam. Push down with your foot." Still nothing.

Dean felt his anxiety starting to rise. He looked at Michael for some sort of clue as to what this meant.

Michael was studying Sam thoughtfully. His eyes went from Sam to Dean and then to the doctor. "Have Dean try."

Dr. Arnold's eyebrows went up, but he nodded his agreement. "Dean."

Confused, Dean shook his head.

"You tell Sam to squeeze your hand," the older man instructed. "Let's see if he responds to you. He did on waking up."

Uncertain, Dean slipped his fingers into Sam's loosely curled palm. He opened his mouth to tell Sam to squeeze, but Sam's hand had already tightened on Dean's. He looked at Michael, who had started to smile ruefully, eyes coming to Dean's.

"I wondered," said Michael. "Ask him to squeeze."

Dean cleared his throat. "Squeeze, Sammy."

Sam did.

Dr. Arnold made a considering face. "See if he'll push down for you." He moved his hand back around Sam's right foot.

"Press down with your foot, Sam," Dean commanded.

Again, Sam responded.

"Good." The doctor looked pleased, flipping the blanket back over Sam's foot. "He's got some nice strength."

Sam's grip on Dean's hand hadn't eased, and Dean didn't try to move away. "What's wrong with him? Why isn't he responding to you?" He looked from Sam, still watching him closely, back to the doctor. "And why isn't he talking?" He looked at Michael. "He should be talking."

The older doctor came around to the side of the bed where Dean was standing. He sighed. "On the talking, you should know that left side brain injuries like Sam's suffered often result in language difficulties. Sometimes there's an issue with understanding verbal language and also with speaking – making the connection between what the brain wants to say and what the mouth actually expresses. So that may be part of what's happening here. But he's also only just awake. The fact that he recognizes you and is responding is good news, Dean." He paused. "Why only you? I honestly don't know right now. But it may be simply that you're the constant for him in this situation. I think Michael said y'all haven't seen each other in a long time – so you were the only one there before the accident who is here now." Dr. Arnold shrugged lightly to indicate uncertainty. "Brain injuries can be tricky. We need to give him some time, OK?" He reached out and patted Dean's arm. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Dean let out a shaken breath. He nodded. "So what do we do from here?"

The doctor eyed the chart he was holding and the medications indicated on the white board across from the bed. "I'm going to make some adjustments to Sam's meds, see if we can get him a little more aware. But even so, encourage him to rest. When he's awake, talk to him, but I wouldn't expect him to respond. At least not right away." He looked at Michael. "You talk to him, too. And you." The doctor looked over at Jake who was still by the door even as he scribbled some instructions on the chart. Then he eyed the leg in its traction. "We'll also need to get him up on that leg soon."

Dean's eyebrows went up. He looked at the cords and pulleys that were holding Sam's leg suspended above the bed. He knew from experience that even with severe injuries, doctors often wanted patients up and around, but a compound fracture of the femur? That was going to hurt like hell.

"The sooner we can get him mobile, the better. That contraption," he indicated it with his chin, "is to keep the leg stabilized right after the surgery, but we can unhook it pretty easily. Sam needs to start putting weight on his leg to get the rehab going." He gave Dean a serious look. "He's got a long road ahead of him."

Dean nodded an acknowledgment of that.

"I'll check back in later," the doctor said and left the room.

Dean glanced down at Sam. Sam's eyes were still on Dean, but only vaguely; when Jake moved up next to Michael at the end of the bed, Sam's attention flicked to the other men, resting there a little longer than it had previously. His eyelids were slipping closed, and Dean saw Jake smile.

"You should go on back to sleep, Sammy," Jake said gently. And to their surprise, Sam's eyes shut obediently.

All three men exchanged somewhat hopeful expressions.

"Huh," said Michael.

"Yeah," agreed Dean. Now he wasn't exactly sure what to do, standing there awkwardly with Sam's hand in his.

"You should probably get some sleep, too," Michael said. "In a bed. I can give you a ride home."

"Or do you want to just hold hands with Sam a little longer," Jake suggested with a grin.

On a growl, Dean tugged his fingers out of Sam's now lax grip.

Michael gave his brother a swat to the back of his head. "Leave him alone." He reached for the jacket Dean had dropped over the back of one of the chairs, tossing it to him. "You'll be here for a while?" he asked his brother.

Jake soothed the sting of the slap he'd received and pouted dramatically for a beat. "Yeah. Aunt Jo texted and said they'd gotten caught in the traffic from a pretty big accident on I10; I figure they may not be here until nine or so. I'll stay until they come by." He picked up his ever-present backpack and dropped it in one of the chairs.

Dean pulled his coat on, felt an odd, unwelcome tug of anxiety at the thought of seeing Jo and Luke again. "If they aren't going to get here until that late, they should wait until…." He stopped at the exasperated glare from Jake and Michael's disbelieving stare.

"Right," said Jake, nodding. "Mom will be happy to just go straight to bed and then maybe sleep in before she sees Sam in the morning." His voice dripped with disdain.

Michael shook his head wonderingly and gave Dean a condescending pat on his shoulder. "It's so cute that you think Aunt Jo and Luke—and Tommy for that matter—won't be on their way over here the minute after they've seen you and how you're doing." He looked at Jake. "It's cute, right?"

"It's pathetic, is what it is," Jake muttered dropping into his chair and unzipping his backpack to pull out his laptop. "Get out," he ordered. "This writing project is due tomorrow, and I have _got _to get it done," he said grimly.

Dean and Michael obeyed.

xxxx

Jo felt a burning nervousness in her stomach as they pulled into the apartment complex where Michael and Jake lived. The drive had been a nightmare. The accident on the interstate had snarled traffic for hours. It had been tense slow-going, and they were all feeling on edge and travel-grubby.

The good news was that Tommy had had plenty of time to read Pride and Prejudice; the bad news was that Jo had had plenty of time to fret herself into feeling slightly sick. Luke was tight-jawed in the driver's seat, and Jo knew he would have little patience with her if she voiced her uncertainty right now.

Luke found a parking space and turned off the car. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as they all just sat for a moment in relief that the trip was over.

"Okay," he said, uncurling his fingers from their death grip on the steering wheel. "Okay." He sighed again, easing his shoulders down before turning to Jo. "You alright?" he asked. He gave her a knowing look, but smiled. And Jo felt a large portion of the tension she'd been holding onto drain out of her. She shook her head, amazed as always, by the effect his steadiness had on her.

"I am now," she said, and her husband leaned over to press his lips to hers.

There were dramatic gagging noises from their child in the backseat. Tommy's door opened and closed on a slam.

They grinned at each other through the kiss before pulling away. Luke waggled his eyebrows at her. "Mission accomplished," he said.

"Thank you," Jo said, giving him another quick peck. She opened her door.

"For traumatizing Tommy?" Luke asked, getting out on his own side. "Any time."

Jo just smiled at him over the hood of the Suburban and the way Luke returned it told her he knew exactly what she'd meant.

"Tommy," Luke shouted after the boy's retreating back. "Why are you not carrying anything?"

Rolling his eyes, Tommy tromped back to the car.

Jo passed the boy on her way to his brothers' apartment. "I'll send whoever's there out to help with the rest," she said, securing her purse over her shoulder. There were advantages to having three boys – one was not having to do heavy lifting.

The nervousness returned as she approached the door. She had a key, but still she knocked, feeling for some reason that maybe a degree of formality was called for given how long it had been since she'd seen the Winchesters.

"It's open!" she heard from inside, and taking a deep breath, she reached for the handle. But before she could get it, the door swung open, and Michael was standing there.

"Hey!" he said. "Why didn't you just come on in?" He didn't wait for an answer, pulling her into a brief, tight hug. "Is there stuff in the car?" And before she could say anything, he was past her, trotting down the stairs.

Jo stepped farther into the apartment; she'd been here several times since the boys had moved in last spring, and she was familiar enough with the layout to know the living area was straight ahead and the bedrooms were to the left. She wondered where Dean might be if he wasn't at the hospital.

"Hey." Dean was moving slowly toward her from the bedroom hallway. His expression was hesitant, but she could tell he was pleased to see her just the same.

"Hey," she returned, stopping herself from adding "baby" like she would have last time she'd seen him, not wanting to presume, feeling horribly awkward and hating it.

"How was your trip?" he asked. "Jake said you'd hit some traffic?"

"It wasn't too bad," she said. Because it didn't feel bad now that they were here. "How are you feeling?"

He looked exhausted and sick, and he shrugged with a rueful smile. "Not good," he admitted.

He was within reach now, and Jo didn't think, simply stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Dean didn't stiffen, but he did still for a moment before his arms came up to return the embrace. "I don't want to make you sick," he said softly.

"Then don't slobber on me," Jo whispered, more than a little overcome in the moment, tightening her hold on him.

Dean laughed shakily and ducked his head down closer, face pressing briefly into her shoulder.

Jo smiled softly and didn't release him, not ready to let go quite yet. She bit her lip, forcing herself not to say all things that wanted to spill out of her mouth – _we've missed you, we love you, don't ever do that again._

"You're blocking the hallway!" Luke's voice startled them apart, and Jo stepped to the side as both her husband and Tommy barreled into the apartment.

Luke dropped the bags he was carrying before moving right into Dean's space with a grin on his face. "It's good to see you, boy!"

The two men exchanged hugs and then Tommy was there.

Jo watched Dean's eyes widen at the sight of the tall – taller than both his brothers and Luke – gangly teenager, just before Tommy engulfed him in a rib crushing hug.

"Dean!"

"Tommy," Dean croaked, breathless from the enthusiastic embrace.

"Don't strangle him, Tommy," cautioned Michael from behind, closing the door as he came in. "He's sick, dude."

"Sorry!" Tommy let Dean go abruptly, and Dean staggered back a step.

''s okay, man," Dean rasped, still eyeing the boy in a kind of wonder. "It's good to see you, too."

"Can we not all just stand in the entryway?" Michael asked a little peevishly.

Laughing, the group shuffled into the main living area, Michael taking a quick detour to drop off bags in the bedrooms.

"Did we wake you up?" Jo asked. He'd been coming from the bedroom and was dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and navy hoodie with the white silhouette of a longhorn on it. Jake's clothes, Jo realized.

Dean sighed and shook his head as he eased onto the couch. "Don't worry about it. Everybody's always waking me up. I can't seem to stay awake," he grumbled half-heartedly. Mostly annoyed with himself.

Jo followed Luke into the kitchen to put away the food they'd brought. She started opening and closing cabinets to see what was available.

"How's Sam doing? Any change?" she wondered. The apartment had an open floorplan, and Jo loved being able to be in the kitchen and still be part of what was happening in the living room. When she glanced at Dean, she saw him look to Michael.

"He was awake for a while this afternoon and responded to Dean," Michael answered from where he was sitting on the other end of the sectional. Tommy had dropped down next to his brother and had slouched down low enough that Michael was able to hook an arm around his little brother's neck.

"Can we see him tonight?" Jo asked. "Or is it too late?"

"Oh," said Michael, sliding his eyes to Dean. "You want to see Sam tonight? Even though it's so late?"

"Well, of course, we do," Jo said, confused. Why was he asking her this?

"You don't want to wait until the morning?" Michael asked, tone solicitous. "Maybe sleep in?"

"Shut up," Dean mumbled.

"No. Wait until morning?" Jo frowned at Michael. "What…?"

"Ignore him," Dead said as Michael began to cackle. "He's giving me a hard time, because I didn't think you guys should go up to the hospital after such a long trip." He glared at Michael. "You win, okay?"

Michael thrust his arms into the air.

And Tommy punched him in the stomach.

Rolling her eyes, Jo turned away from the wrestling match that began when Michael retaliated by pushing his little brother over onto the couch and jumping on top of him. It wasn't her furniture they were going to break, so they could do what they pleased.

"Where's Jacob?" Luke asked, closing the freezer door. They'd had a couple of things for the boys that Luke had packed in an ice chest.

Michael couldn't answer, locked as he was currently in a choke hold by his younger brother.

"He's up at the hospital," Dean responded instead. His head was tipped onto the back of the couch and his eyes were closed. He, too, ignored the scrum on the opposite side of the sofa he was sitting on. "He was going to study until you guys got there."

"OK." She looked around the kitchen to make sure they hadn't left it in too much disarray. They hadn't. "I'm going to freshen up a little, then we'll go." There was no pause in the struggle between Michael and Tommy that had relocated to the floor when they'd toppled off the couch. She raised her voice. "You two hear me?"

"We hear you," Michael panted and with a grunt, flipped his brother onto his stomach and sat on him, bending Tommy's arm up so his wrist was between his shoulder blades. Tommy wriggled like crazy, and Michael twisted the arm a little higher.

"Ow!" yelped Tommy. "I give!"

Grinning in satisfaction, Michael let go, pushed himself off his brother and stood. Rumpled, Tommy followed him up, rubbing his arm sullenly.

Jo shook her head at Michael. "Really," Jo disapproved. "How old are you?"

"He started it," Michael shrugged, unrepentant.

Jo huffed. _Boys._

She turned to Dean who had been watching everything through heavy-lidded eyes. "Do you want to come?"

Dean sat up from where he'd been slouched, put his hands on the couch cushion like he was getting ready to stand, but Michael was shaking his head. "Unless you're getting up to go back to bed, Dean, you need to stay put."

Dean sighed, back bowing where he sat, struggling, Jo recognized, with whether to make the trip to the hospital or get the rest he must know he needed desperately.

"Seriously, man," Michael said in the soothing, but professionally assertive voice he'd taken to using now when medical matters were at hand. "You have got to sleep. And it's highly unlikely Sam's going to be awake."

Jo crossed to the sofa and sat down next to Dean. She put a tentative hand on his back, felt the muscles under her palm loosen almost imperceptibly at her touch.

"If Sam is awake, we'll tell him you're OK and that you'll be there in the morning," she told him gently.

He turned to look at her, face drawn, weariness in his eyes as he studied her, oddly intent. This close she could see changes in him that she hadn't noticed in their initial greeting by the door. The lines around his eyes had deepened and changed, etching a seriousness into his expression that hadn't been quite so stark before. And there was a dusting of gray interwoven into the slightly lighter hair at his temples that hadn't been obvious at first glance. He looked so worn. It broke her heart.

Of its own accord, the hand that had been on Dean's back moved to his cheek, cupping his face. His eyes slid closed.

"Go to bed, baby." The endearment slipped out, unbidden.

Dean's expression shifted at her words, and just when Jo was about to move her hand, fearful that she'd overstepped, he leaned slightly into her touch. They sat there for just a beat before Dean sighed and laughed shakily as he opened his eyes, looking straight into hers. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

Jo couldn't help the grin. "Good boy."

"I like your pjs," Luke said, moving forward to hold out a hand and pull Dean to his feet.

Dean looked down at the sweatshirt he was wearing and laughed again as he stood. "Yeah. We were overdue on laundry _before _this mess happened. And Jake, at least," here he gave Tommy a jaundiced stare, "is close enough to my size that I can wear something that won't stink up the place until I can get a load in the washer."

Jo frowned at Michael for not already have gotten Dean's clothes clean.

"It's been a day since he got here!" Michael defended himself. "And it's not like I have to work or anything," he added, though he looked appropriately chastised.

Jo raised an eyebrow at him.

"Fine," Michael muttered. He trailed after Dean, and Jo was satisfied that he'd at least get a load started while they were checking on Sam. Luke and Tommy followed them. Jo hoped vaguely that they'd also get cleaned up before they headed to the hospital.

She took a deep breath in the quiet left behind as all the men left the room, then let it go on a quick prayer of thanks—safely here, reunion with Dean over and so much easier than she'd feared it might be, Sam awake and recognizing his brother.

Jo dug into her purse for toothbrush and toothpaste before heading to the bathroom herself. A quick splash of water on her face and clean teeth, and she'd be ready to go. There was one more Winchester she needed to lay eyes on before she'd be able to sleep tonight.

xxxx


End file.
